I, Adventurer
by Kerobani
Summary: The Stormcloak Insurrection is over. The cities of Skyrim are being rebuilt and the armies are mustering out. But for Ieago, his friends, and allies, peace means a more insidious danger. The Thalmor are spreading out into Skyrim, seeking weapons for the next war. It is up to the Dragonborn to stop them before powerful relics, long buried, are brought to light again. Rated M: VSL.
1. Domestic Assault

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Hi team, it's good to be posing again. Happy Valentine's Day or Singles Awareness Day, depending on how much you like your current status. Thank you all for each and every view, favorite, and follow. But thanks in particular to Naruto, Chris, Kai, Meyer, and BassTheatre for their regular/insightful feedback.**

* * *

Among the first things I did upon being released from Imperial service was accept Jarl Free-Winter's offer of rank and title. My acceptance came with a large, ugly mansion named Hjerim and a large, ugly housecarl named Calder. He in turn sported a pair of large, ugly mutton chops hanging from his jaws.

Unnatural as it might seem, there were a number of advantages to becoming a Thane of Eastmarch. First and foremost was Hjerim itself. The manor house on the west side of Windhelm was large enough to shelter the cadre of warriors that joined me in the recent battle. I was grateful to have the Circle and my housecarls with me too. I wasn't exactly popular with the locals.

Not that I could blame them. The resentment and desire for revenge was profound in the city I helped tear apart. The city blocks below the walls were fire-blackened ruins. Hundreds of families were destitute in the wake of the siege. People packed into the houses of friends and strangers, stores, inns, and temples; wherever they could find a place to spread a cloak on the floor. The elves of the Gray Quarter were unwilling at first to house refugees, but a delegation of elven soldiers and officers from the Legion were able to 'convince' most of the residents there to open their doors.

Almost as bad, the details of my reply to Ulfric's last request spread somehow. The charismatic rebel Jarl had developed a folk-hero status in the streets of his fiercely separatist city. For most of the locals, my refusal of his last request was just one crime of many I had yet to pay for. Until the Legion lifted the lockdown on travel, I was glad to sleep behind a thick oak door and a rotation of proven friends.

There were times I was obliged to leave my house in the days after the battle. First and foremost, I was one of the few witnesses at Ulfric's funeral. A scant handful of people were permitted to attend the Jarl's last rites and three cohorts were stationed to keep the public a long way from the Hall of the Dead where the ceremony took place. His personal banner was folded to join several other tokens of the Legion's victory on a tour of the remaining cities of the Empire, afterward it would be hung from the rafters of the throne room in the White-Gold Tower.

A day later Tullius decreed that all citizens of the Empire in Eastmarch should witness the disarming of the Stormcloak army. Tullius started with Ulfric's remaining general, Frorkmar Banner-Torn and Jarl Skald of Dawnstar. After presiding over the destruction two legions in the Pale, they brought their forces into Windhelm before Tullius could cordon the city. With Galmar Stone-Fist they orchestrated the defense of Ulfric's capital. Now they were the highest ranking rebels in Imperial custody. The two men were brave and struggled mightily. In the end, each required a dozen men to hold their chains and drag them to the headsman's platform just outside of the city where everyone was assembled to watch. Their roars echoed off Windhelm's distant walls as the executioner's axe came down to extract the Empire's price for rebellion. The blows rained down until their sword arms were severed just below the shoulder, never to be raised against the Empire again.

The rest of the Stormcloak army was disarmed in a less brutal, yet subtly crueler fashion. Every banner or device, down to the simple pennants used to signify the location of a company, was cut from its pole and laid on the great funeral pyre being assembled on the grounds of the Legion's artillery park. As the rebel soldiers were marched home beneath their bare poles, they were obliged to throw their weapons to the side of the road and pave the intersections with their shields. For years hence, one could cheaply buy pitted steel or tarnished moonstone recovered by scavengers. As the shields rotted wayfarers would pile the hoops and scraps to the sides of the intersections. No traveler in Skyrim could be ignorant of whose weapons they were or how they came to be there. _Everyone_ knew someone who was obliged march home empty handed.

I suppose the captured Stormcloaks could count themselves fortunate. Those holdouts caught in the wilds were simply put to steel; their bodies left to rot under the indifferent sky; their loved ones never to know their fate.

I also had the strange experience of actually seeing my sins in the act of finding me out. Though in hindsight, I wonder if I had it coming. At the time, I was observing Tullius handle a Thalmor Justiciar.

"There is no Temple of Talos in Windhelm," Tullius deadpanned to Nuala. Ambassador Elenwen had sent this knife-eared demon and her bodyguards all the way from the embassy in Haafingar to nag us about that humiliating treaty. Tullius remained relaxed and lied to the Thalmor Justiciar as if she actually believed the words coming out of his mouth.

"All that remains," General Tullius was saying, "Is a small memorial to Tiber Septim, who you could agree is Skyrim's favorite son. The building's keepers comply with every law."

I stood silent, fuming with anger. If all were right and just in the world, this shouldn't have required deceit. The _vast_ majority of humans in the Legions worship Talos. I worship Talos. We pray to him as willingly and sincerely as the Dunmer to Azura or the Aragonians to the Hist.

It took all my self-discipline not to sneer or grumble while watching the exchange.

"Forgive me for sounding impatient when I beg you to hurry your departure Justiciar," Tullius continued, "Windhelm is still an unstable place, and if some rebel hothead should see your robes, he or she might try to start another war."

"Madam Ambassador will be glad to hear of your concern for my safety, General. But my duties to the Dominion require me to remain in Windhelm for the next several days. At least until a permanent justiciar can be assigned. Until then I shall require a room here in the palace," Nuala replied.

Tullius nodded. "I'm sure Jarl Free-Winter will be glad to find suitable accommodations for you," He said before the Jarl could refuse.

"Send a messenger to Candlehearth Hall when the room is ready," Nuala commanded before turning and leaving.

Tullius remained silent and held a stiff posture long after the Altmer and her bodyguards departed. "Gods help us if Skyrim isn't ready when the past catches up with the Empire," he mumbled to Legate Rikke and Jarl Free-Winter.

I thought it an apt, if strange choice of words.

* * *

I should have anticipated that Nuala's would never be content to wait in her room at Candlehearth Hall. I should have been vigilant. I'd been complacent in the security brought by the Thalmor thinking Ieago of Kvatch was dead at Helgen. But the Altmer inquisitors had a new enemy: Ieago the Dragonborn, Thane of the Holds. Distracted as I was by Alduin and then by the Civil War, I'd thought the Thalmor would content themselves with easier prey than a man who could slay dragons and break cities. After my stunt at the Embassy, I thought Ambassador Elenwen would have the sense to leave me alone. I don't know why I thought that way. The truth is I wasn't so much a priority as I was a target of opportunity. The Dominion had bigger fish to catch in Skyrim. I was vain. I was stupid. I was a poor master. Gods forgive me I was a poor husband.

On the night of the attack Aela and I were sitting by the fire with Lydia. It was Calder's turn to guard the house that night, so the rest of us were scattered and unarmed. A few days had passed since Hijerim was vandalized or the word 'traitor' flung at me in the streets; so Calder thought little of opening the door to the person knocking that evening. A city guard stood there with a sword in hand. Even as the rest of us stood to face the new threat Calder fell to the floor with a hole in his throat.

Without a declaration or challenge the man of Windhelm's militia advanced, fixing me with strangely blank eyes behind his helmet's mask. I was about to draw Revenant when a grey blur roared in at the intruder, snatched his mask, and used that grip to fling the attacker to the ground. A black smoke grew from the guard's body as Farkas readied his free fist for a fight-ending blow. We looked up to see a towering woman clad in the black robes of the Thalmor Justiciars. Beneath her hood was a metal mask almost identical to the one I recovered from Rhagot and the one Nahkriin wore atop Skuldafn.

The masked justiciar glanced over my shoulder and turned to wisps of black smoke before I could call out or Farkas could attack. I turned around to see Lydia clutching her head and screaming in agony. The noise cut off like a hand was clapped over her mouth and Lydia straitened like a puppet whose strings were being pulled. Before any of us understood what was happening she shoved her shoulder into Aela, slamming my wife into the cobblestones of the fireplace. Lydia's hand wrapped around Aela's face and drove her head into the stones. There was a sickening crack as skull gave way to masonry.

I waded into the fight; wondering if I had it in me to see Aela and yet another friend dead even as I ducked the first punch and sent a fist into Lydia's iron-hard abdomen. The fight went on for a few more seconds. Lydia's puppet master might have been able to use Lydia's graceful strength and dexterity, but she could not tap into Lydia's lifetime of expertise. I backed off my attacks, changing from the kicks and punches I use to end a threat to the parries and grabs I employ to subdue.

By the time the assassin realized she wasn't going to win; Argis, the brothers, Iona, and Jordis were arrayed behind me with swords and axes in hand.

"Submit, Justiciar," I commanded in a threatening growl.

But if she was willing to concede defeat, she was equally unwilling to be slain by her quarry and his henchmen. The smoke came from every pore of Lydia's body as the Thalmor killer abandoned her host, allowing Lydia to wilt to the floor. The masked agent's hands flew forward and I found myself battered aside by a ferocious telekinetic punch. Her robed form flew between us and out the door. I snatched Revenant from Jordis's hand and ran after the robed figure with Vilkas and Argis on my heels.

We barreled down the avenue after the robed woman. We were catching up when her black form converted to that baleful mist and flew toward another guard who was openly staring at the spectacle. His possessed body began running and shouting, raising a hue and cry against me. I was growling like I was still a werewolf when I caught up to the assassin near the market district. I leapt ahead, tackling her host. The Thalmor's ankles appeared before me as the guard and I hit the ground. The Altmer was running as hard as she could for the early-evening crowds in the market area. She disappeared into another host and slipped into the milling crowd as Argis gave me a hand up. I began running like the wind for Hjerim.

* * *

"She is not dead," the middle-aged cleric said after a long time. "None of her injuries are serious and have been well treated. But possession and exorcism are traumatic in the best of circumstances. Her body and mind simply have decided that she needs a rest," He peeled back one of Lydia's eyelids to look into her unseeing pupil. "She'll wake up on her own. Later rather than sooner I daresay. Until then, keep her warm. She is to have a light meal once a day. Grind it to a thin paste, she'll swallow on reflex. Give her at least four cups of water over the course of the day, enough to keep her tongue from swelling. If she should thrash in her dreams, keep her from falling off the bed, but do not otherwise hinder her.

Farkas hung on Lortheim's every word, eager for the least encouragement that Lydia would be well. "Don't worry my son," Lortheim said gently. "I can't tell how long it will take, but she will wake up in time. Be sure there is a familiar face when she does. Even if she should wake tomorrow, she will be confused; and very weak."

Farkas and Vilkas nodded their understanding while I carried a pot of boiling water to the surgeon and his assistant. They'd brought Aela up to a table as soon as they arrived behind Jordis. After cleaning their tools, the assistant began sharpening knives against a strip of hard leather like the barber he probably was. Meanwhile the surgeon was carefully probing Aela's head injury, seeking for the softest, darkest spot on her scalp.

"Fractured skull," the Breton surgeon pronounced as he took a razor from his assistant and began to carefully shave a patch of hair away from Aela's left temple. The whole side of her face was dark red except for a patch just forward of and above her ear. There her face was so deep a purple it was almost black. The bone surrounding her temple was swollen and soft to the touch. "Your healing spell likely stopped the internal bleeding, but blood will still linger on her brain. She must be drained if we are to prevent lasting damage." Fear gripped my chest with the knowledge that I was about to see the love of my life go under the knife again. I ran to the kitchen to vomit in a bucket at the sight of the assistant testing the mechanism of his trephine before rinsing it off again in the steaming pot of water.

"Shit," I gasped after wiping my mouth. My arm shook as I tapped the spot on my right arm where my badge usually rested. I wiped a cold sweat from my face. I walked back into the mansion's main room at the sound of boots clomping though the door. There was almost a dozen of Windhelm's guards in my living room. Their shields were high and swords were pointed at me as they made a semi-circle. A legionary battle mage was behind them, subtle flames rising from his poised hands.

"You're under arrest Thane," the leader of the soldiers said, "For assaulting men-at-arms of Windhelm's militia and disturbing the peace."

"Shit," I said again as I dropped Revenant to the floor and kicked her behind me into the kitchen.

* * *

 **I admit** **that I find it counter-message to depict violence against women on Valentine's day. I hope you all will forgive me my indulgence. In equal measure, I hope my writing has sold you on how deeply Ieago cares for the people in his life.**


	2. A Delayed Start

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Just a quick note before I** **move on: I was asked in recent days about the sequence of my _I, __ series. To get a better idea of how Ieago wound up in his current place, I encourage you all to check out _Companion, Dragonborn,_ and _Legionnaire_ in that order.**

* * *

I was released from Windhelm's jails a week later. My hood was thrown back and Revenant banged my thigh as I walked with long, fast strides. The late winter air was frigid, but I was sweating profusely.

 _One housecarl dead._ I said to myself. I'd known Calder for less than a week. All I'd really known about the man was that he fought ferociously to defend Windhelm through the siege. Whatever his other loyalties however, he was a warrior of my house. He deserved my protection and loyalty. I let him down.

 _A friend in a coma_. "I'm sorry Thane," the Centurion stationed at the city gates said, "Nonessential civilian travel in and out of the city is forbidden for another two weeks."

"I'm a Quaestor of the Legion! I'm a Thane of the hold! I was behind the Forlorn Hope to capture this city!" I protested, my mouth on the verge of hanging open in shock.

" _Former_ Quaestor," the Centurion had the impudence to reply, "A _civilian_ now, Thane, and one not providing essential services. So I'm forbidden to allow you passage." Her century arrayed themselves before the gate. I turned away.

 _My wife was attacked on our property_. _AGAIN!_ Anger drove my stride faster and faster to the place I chose. If I couldn't leave the city through the gate, I was going to go over that fucking Centurion's head. " _Od-ah-viing_!" I roared out, my anger making the summons more forceful than was needed. I heard his reply in the distance and started to pace around the flagstones. The huge red dragon landed with a thud in the windblown snow before I completed my first lap around Candlehearth Hall. Soldiers and civilians alike scattered or drew weapons at sight of my largest ally landing in the open space near the avenue leading to the Palace of the Kings. He looked at me without a word as I climbed onto his neck.

"The college at Winterhold," I commanded.

* * *

The residents of Winterhold flew for their lives in a cloud of snow and screams when a tremendous dragon landed in the middle of their remaining avenue. Just as suddenly, the creature took off again. All that remained behind was a man with a ferocious expression on his face running hard for the college citadel.

Morgan and Ghent showed me into the warm dormitory room they shared. They sat on their bed and waited in silence for me to tell them why I'd terrorized a village and looked like I was willing to tear doors off hinges to locate the two of them.

I opened my pack and pulled out the mask I recovered from Forelhost, the ruined fortress-monastery in the Rift. The place was once commanded by the dragon priest Raghot. Their eyes grew wide at the sight of the grim metal face. Morgan gasped and got off the bed to lock the door. When she was done she stood in the corner as far from me as possible with shoulders hunched and arms crossed tight over her stomach.

Ghent leaned away as I brought the mask up into the light. He took it reluctantly after wrapping his hands in the sleeves of his cloak. "Where did you find this?" He asked slowly.

My anger flared anew at the memory of the elf in black and yellow using the people I care for to murder me.

"One of the Thalmor who came to kill me last week was wearing one just like it," I growled. "What do you know about these masks? How many are there? What can they do? I asked earnestly.

Morgan's tanned face lit up with concern, "Ghent, this might be related the Thalmor agent sent after Morokei," she offered from her corner.

Ghent shot her a significant look before turning back to me. I made a mental note to press them on the subject of who Morokei was if they were unwilling to elaborate. But for the moment, the looks of work on their faces were worrying me, "For the one here who is not a mage, what is this thing that was used to attack my house?"

"It is the funeral mask and phylactery of one of the most powerful liches in Skyrim's history." Ghent said.

The explanation meant nothing to me. "A lich's what?" I asked the silent room. A log in the fire popped, throwing up sparks to brighten my friends' nervous faces.

"There are a few—ahhh— _procedures_ a necromancer can carry out to prolong life after natural death. Part of one such method is to imbue an item with a portion of his power. So long as that item remains on him or near his grave, the mage will continue to exist in this world." Ghent explained, looking slightly uncomfortable. The blue-clad wizard turned the back of the mask toward him to look more closely at it. "According to the runes on the inside, this mask belonged to a priest called Raghot."

I rolled my eyes, "How poetic: A _Mask of Rage_. I found a similar mask like this during my battle to Alduin's door. I left it in the ruins."

"That was a mistake," Morgan said bluntly, "So long as the phylactery remains near its lich, the priest will eventually reanimate."

I shrugged, a list of things to accomplish taking shape in my mind, "So my next task it to retrieve that mask. What exactly are they capable of? And where are they buried?" I demanded in quick succession. My imagination was populating Skyrim with an unlimited supply of masked killers using my friends and loved ones as their weapons.

Ghent shrugged. "Each of these masks is a unique and powerful artifact. Each holds a portion of its owner's former power and shares it with the person wearing the mask. Any powerful person would want one that compliments their talents. For example, this one allows the wearer to move and perceive the world very quickly. The mask Morgan and I recovered in Labyrintian turns its wearer into a channel for magicka, allowing near unlimited spellcasting. As for where to find them, that's not going to be simple. The Dragon War was traumatic for the Nords. These masks and many other things were buried and meant to be forgotten behind their guardians. Not much knowledge has survived to the present. All I can tell you is that there were dozens of dragon priests in the Mythic and First eras of history, but only nine ever received masks like these." Ghent said.

"Well, we have two and my enemies have at least one. Where should I begin to look for the rest then?" I asked.

"I'd start with Paarthurnax," Morgan suggested, "He was one of the highest in the Dragon Cult."

I thanked them both and stood to leave.

I called Odahviing to an isolated field a few miles from Winterhold and ordered him to take me back to Skuldafn. If it is possible for someone without lips to do, Odahviing smirked. "Why so eager to return to that fane Dovahkiin? Did you leave something behind? Your house keys? Your coin-purse perhaps?"

I wasn't in the mood, "You sarcastic bastard. You know damn well what I left behind. Now get me there and haul ass!"

* * *

Even for a necropolis Skuldafn was quiet this time around. On my last visit, the air had been filled with the noise of beating wings and the Shouts of dragons and powerful draugr. Now the only noise was the waterfall in the ravine outside.

Fresh bodies in black robes and moonstone armor covered the final flight of steps to the crown of the temple. Many were burned or their armor was punctured and torn. A thin layer of ash dusted the final landing, curling up in wisps with the frigid breeze. All I could find of Nahkriin was a dull ceremonial dagger. I threw the useless blade to the ground and swore long and viciously at the bleak grey sky.

It was a more subdued Odahviing that took me to Paarthurnax's aerie.

* * *

"So the ancient safeguards are failing. It was only a matter of time," Paarthurnax said with a trace of remorse in his deep voice. His wings and neck were sagging slightly, as if an event he'd long ago foreseen and warned against was occurring.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Many of the tombs and temples in Skyrim were built by the Dragon Cult. Most were like Bromjunar: part of a city of mortals. Only when the priests succumbed to the rebels at the end of the Dragon War were the temples shut and the draugr locked within."

I frowned in confusion, "I thought the temples were places of worship, not confinement."

"At one time you would have been right Dovahkiin. But ask yourself: why were all the keys left _outside_ the seals? When a criminal is locked in their cage, to the guards leave the key within?"

Sometimes, the simplest truths are the hardest to see. "Well I'll be damned," I said, feeling foolish. "Do you know where any of the priests are buried?"

The old dragon twisted his head slightly. "I am sorry Dovahkiin, no. I was estranged from the Cult in its final years, when the mightiest priests sought their catacombs. The only one I know is the grave of Krosis, who repented too late. He rests on a ledge of Shearpoint to the north of here. He sleeps alone, for his brothers would not have him back and neither would the rebels forgive he who caused so much anguish. I would seek out the _Fahliil_ who used the mask against you. She seems to know where to look already."

"Thank you Paarthurnax," I said, about to turn toward the path to High Hrothgar, but the dragon spoke again.

"One last warning Dovahkiin: The priests are not the only danger locked away behind the ringed doors. _Lok thu'um_."


	3. Cameo

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks.**

* * *

It was a beautiful early spring day that Argis the Bulwark, Jordis the Sword-Maiden, and I made it to the top of Shearpoint-only to discover the word wall was half way down the other side. I regretted the absence of my regular adventuring team. It wasn't that Argis and Jordis were poor company or timid fighters, but they were deferential to me in a way that my older comrades had been trained out of long ago.

My cadre was scattered: The two housecarls informed me upon arriving at Fort Dunstad that Lydia still slept, though she spoke volubly and often needed to be carried back to her bed. Ghent and Morgan remained at Winterhold, combing the College archives for clues to the other masks' whereabouts. Iona was away doing much the same with the Riften Thieves' Guild. Vilkas and Farkas were on their way to Whiterun to begin restoring Jorrvaskr and taking shifts nursing Lydia. Above all I missed Aela, whose injuries would keep her off the roads for weeks to come; though by the grace of the Gods she was conscious and able to remember what happened.

The three of us approached the isolated word wall and adjacent stone coffin. The ledge we strode upon offered a breathtaking view of the Yorgrim River bracketed by grey-green pine trees while the Yorgrim Mountains on the far side of the valley rose to their heart-fluttering heights. The silhouette of a dragon soaring complacently could be seen above the far eastern peaks. I thought briefly what I would have done if Aela were here. Maybe start by nibbling on her ear... I sighed, stopped daydreaming, and tapped the red diamond on my shoulder to focus my thoughts.

"What did the ancients have to tell us Dragonborn?" Argis asked me as he gazed up at the monument.

I frowned at the use of that title by someone so familiar to me, "My name is Ieago. Call me Thane if you wish to be formal.

"At any rate, it hints that Krosis was not well-received by the rebels during the Dragon War. It says, ' _Only the fool gives voice to his remorse far from his trespasses; Yet fears not the anger of those he injured,"_ I read words for 'voice, fool, and far,' burned in my sight. I wondered what they did in combination, for they felt subtle and gentle while their collective meaning reverberated in my mind.

"And speaking of trespassing, we are not the first to disturb this grave," Jordis said from the edge of an old Nordic sarcophagus.

The grass all around isolated ledge was burned, trampled, and mixed with ice where the snow melted during a recent mage duel. The slate lid of the coffin was on the ground in a few large chunks and nobody was within. Several minutes of searching found the coffin's owner behind a few tumbled boulders. A blackened skull and a few pieces of spine wrapped in a tattered cape and a tarnished bandolier were all that remained of Krosis the Penitent. The Mask of Sorrow was gone. I held the skull up to look into its eye pits for a moment, bringing it back to its coffin. _Again!_ I fumed to myself. _Beaten again!_

"Shit!" I swore aloud, chucking the fragile skull into its coffin. It shattered into a spray of black teeth and chalk. I turned back to my party, "We scour the area. We must find out where they've gone."

* * *

Tracking people in the wilderness is a pain in the ass. There is no way around this fact. All that lore about footprints and broken plants? It's not entirely true. I seldom used such signs while ranging over Colovia. Snow on the ground helps, but even that can be misleading. Unless it was a large group of people, there was rarely much in the way of tracks or damaged plants. Ideally you stay on a horse to get a better view and have hounds to smell the way. My senses of smell and hearing were still keen from my months of lycanthropy, but nowhere near as capable as they were when I had the Beast Blood. Scrying spells can help, but only if you have a competent wizard in your party. When left to mundane resources, you look for the nearest civilization and trash. Nobody likes sleeping in the outdoors for too long; but when they do they tend to leave behind copious amounts of trash.

The logic bore itself out after Argis spotted the smoke rising from an inn a few miles away to the north. We made our own path down the side of Shearpoint and soon found a giant's corpse riddled with moonstone and malachite arrows. A lone dead Altmer had been dragged away from the debris and lain decently on his back. The three of us picked up our pace. The lack of scavengers suggested the fight was recent.

We arrived at the Nightgate Inn long after sunset and were greeted warmly by Hadring, a talkative and lonely publican. The bearded man was gossiping about our quarry before I put money on the counter.

"Yeah," Hadring replied when I got a word in edgewise, "A whole fistful of those elves came by three days ago. Acting higher and mightier than they had any right to. Drove my regular away with their airs, my other guest to the cellar, ate like birds, and flew off west without tipping!"

I commiserated with him on the evils of rude people as far as my patience would allow and settled my bill for supper. He was close to clutching my knees as I followed Argis and Jordis into the night. I cast a spell of night vision and set a steady pace on the road west. If the gods were with me, I hoped we might gain a few miles on the Thalmor ahead of us.

The night wore on without a trace of our prey. Once or twice I caught the smell of wood smoke, but only fleeting wisps in the dark. Argis was yawning compulsively and my horse was walking in s-turns by the time Jordis made me call a halt. I collapsed onto the ground and closed my eyes. It felt like I opened them a scant second later to the light of the sun on the horizon.

I shook my housecarls awake, bitterly resenting the handful of hours we slept. Breakfast was eaten on the go as the mounting sun warmed our backs. The day felt hot and I drove us hard, at a quick trot just below a gallop. My skin itched where the sweat trickled beneath my leather armor. My poor men-at-arms must have been in agony beneath the leather and steel of their traveling gear.

The first good news in weeks came when we arrived back at Fort Dunstad a day later. A few Companions had relocated to our appropriated castle after the end of the Civil War. The tavern there had little to offer, but had become a sort of way station for Companions, Imperial soldiers, and anyone thirsty traveling to or from western Skyrim.

"They were here the day before yesterday," Torvar told me, "six soldiers following a wizard and some yellow-skinned backbiter that wasn't in a uniform. He seemed to be in charge though. 'Kept arguing with the mage about staying south of the mountains and going cross-country instead of sticking to the road north. They eventually decided on north. That plainclothes elf spent the rest of the morning sulking before they got back on their horses. 'Kept bitching about it taking too long if they stuck to the roads. I don't see what he was complaining about. All eight of them were well-mounted. The loop in the Pale Road is out of the way, but it doesn't add _that_ much to the trip to Solitude."

"Torvar, when you retire, I'm going to refurbish this shithole and make sure you wind up owning it!" I promised the Companions' ranking alcoholic. I stood from my table and shouted for Jordis and Argis to follow me again.

* * *

Our coursers ambled down a forest path after Torvar's welcome news. The Thalmor we were hunting might have been wary of going off the road, but I held no such reservations. It was a frustrating shortcut. We needed to slow our pace often dismount to guide our mounts around the trees, coming barely to a trot in the infrequent clearings. For all that, I could count on gaining more than a day on the Thalmor party. The three of us burst through the springtime undergrowth and back onto the road near Stonehills Mine. We tore along the open road for miles; our horses elated to be galloping on the level paving stones after the halting pace in the woods. With any luck, I was just hours behind the Thalmor sorceress and her escorts.

We would have passed Labyrinthian by if not for the thread of smoke rising high above the abandoned walls. Such a sight was not necessarily out of place, but I found it odd: When I had come months ago with orders to march on Whiterun, Balgruuf ordered the city abandoned again.

I couldn't help but feel that I was wasting time as I turned from the road and picked out the way along the old right-of-way to the city's north ramps. In all likelihood, it was just a merchant's camp or a few vagrants sheltering in the old mansions.

We found a campfire burning itself out by the city's central barrow. A handful of dead Kajiit lay around it with a few horse carts. I overheard my housecarls dismount and draw their swords. I followed suit and the three of us approached to see what violence had been done to the cat-people.

Argis and I were watching Jordis search one of the bodies when the one-eyed man tapped my shoulder and pointed to a partially collapsed tower nearby. The two of us padded over to the vacant doorway and stood against the wall. Argis swept into the building with his shield high and my hand on his shoulder. The iron boss of the shield collided with a robed figure and his feet swept the creature's legs away.

"Nice takedown Arigs," I remarked as we dragged the batted Khajiit to the campfire.

"Looks like someone did most of the work already," he observed.

I had to agree. The Khajiit and his robe were cut and torn in several places. A quick casting of Healing Hands and a few minutes by the fire brought the man around.

"Have mercy hairless ones! This one means you no harm," he exclaimed once he became aware of his surroundings. He sat up and tried to scramble away from us.

"And we mean you no harm. Who are you? What happened to your caravan?" I asked.

"This one is called M'aiq the Liar. Third of that name, or so his father told him. We scoured this land for a magic mask that the elves were so keen to find. We brought it here for delivery and payment. But the elves, they did not want it known that the mask was found or sought after. So here we are: this one is unexpectedly alive, but with none to celebrate with."

"What sort of mask?" I asked excitedly, "Was it metal? With a frowning mouth and slots for eyes?"

"It was frowning yes, but of wood, not of metal. The wizard-elf was eager to hold it, but it was the scribe-elf that thought it was most valuable. It was he that commanded the killing."

I grabbed the Khajiit's tattered robe by the collar in my excitement, "Where did they go M'aiq? What were their names?"

"The wizard made much noise about returning to the embassy, but she was not in command. The scribe said they would go to Solitude by the fastest road."

"What was this scholar's name? I need to know!" I pressed.

"The one you seek hunts with the name Achenar. And a dangerous one he is, even for one so renowned as the Dragonborn... Don't look so surprised! The Nords may want the Dragonborn to be one of their kindred, but Khajiit see what others will not."

"Thank you M'aiq," I growled. My weapon, device, and deeds were far more widely known than my appearance. It was a blessing I was grateful for. "If you walk east on the road from here, you will find a settlement where you can rest within a few hours. Housecarls, we ride west!"

I was mounting my horse, when Argis turned to M'aiq, "Your kinsfolk are all dead, Khajiit, and you are covered with wounds. How did you survive?"

The strange man gave us a sidelong glance, "We Khajiit are more cat than man. Perhaps we have nine lives to your one? But however it is, this one must keep some secrets to defend himself with."

"Let it go Argis," I said from my horse, "Being down one life is a rough morning."


	4. The Road to Solitude

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Hi team. I know it's been a bit, but the process has been slow these last few months. I hope you'll be glad to know that a _Dawnguard_ story is about 25% done and Ghent and Morgan have just met in a fanfiction of their own. I'll be posting more of this story as I reach important plot events in those two stories. I know holding one work hostage for another isn't the best way to treat my readers, but the fact is I'd rather be able to say that I have something written down for you than just that I have something coming.**

 **I've wanted to say this for a while: General Hawk, you're a real American hero.**

 **Thanks again readers. I hope to hear from you all.**

* * *

Morthal was not far off as the sun set on our second day out from Labyrinthian. By then our horses were gasping and their hair was frosted white with sweat. Feeling like death, I opted to bring my party into town for the night.

Apart from Whiterun, Morthal was one of the handful of places where I was widely recognized by face _and_ popularly accepted as the Dragonborn. I was therefore taken aback by the citizens' welcome that pleasant spring evening. Just two years ago, I'd almost lost Lydia, an arm, and come close to getting eaten in the fight to protect this town from a dragon. It sounds conceited, but I was caught off guard by the locals' lack of warmth. While nobody was hostile, there was no shouting, no calling out. The most I received was a near-universal wan smile and a warning shake of the head. Feeling somewhat selfish and ridiculous, I pressed on to the Moorside Inn.

The mystery resolved itself when I rounded the corner of the Jarl's longhouse and saw a tall figure in moonstone armor blanketing one of the numerous horses stabled at the inn. Before he could turn around, I'd grabbed Argis by the shoulder and pulled him out of sight by Jarl Ravencrone's door.

"If I were sorry Dragonborn, I would say so," Jarl Ravencrone said a minute later. I had asked to spend the night in her hall. I felt more let down than surprised or angry. She read the open disappointment on my face and continued, "I freely acknowledge the debt I owe you; and a time will come soon when Morthal will be deeper in your debt. But for now, your enemies' wrath is more dangerous than any of Hjallmrach's threats.

I nodded my acceptance of reality and turned to depart. Argis held the door for Jordis and me. I was about to cross the threshold when Idgrod spoke again from her throne, "The Thalmor know a great deal about the Dragonborn; fear and hate him too. But they know little of Ieago of Kvatch's fate. Be careful: As you draw closer to your enemy, they are catching up to you."

I bowed again and left, my exhausted mind not able yet to understand the value of what she'd just told me.

We walked beside our tired mounts, granting them what little ease I was willing to afford. The sky was just fading from midnight black to the blue-purple shades of the earliest twilight when we arrived at Fort Snowhawk. The quartermaster led us to a small room and left us yawning stupidly at its door.

I slept like a rock. In response to the midmorning sun beaming into my face through the arrow slit, I rolled over and tried to savor the sensation of total relaxation that comes from sleeping late without a care in the world.

* * *

After many hours I got up and stepped over Jordis to look through the narrow window. For long minutes I gazed complacently at wispy clouds in the glorious pale blue sky. Looking at the earth, I saw that the flora of the marshes had sprouted their first pale green leaves. White, pink, and lavender flowers were blooming everywhere. The ache started in my arms and spread to my shoulders. It traveled down my chest, through my legs, and settled in my manhood. My imagination held for me images of taking Aela by the hand and guiding her into the wilds; there to wrap her in my arms and press her close against my chest. I was filled to overflowing with the desire to find my love and participate with her in this celebration of life after a winter of bitter death.

An osprey's cry jolted my thoughts back to the present late hour of the day. My quarry would be well ahead of us by now!

"Gods damnit!" I swore over and over again as I pulled my clothes on and bolted to the stables. As I feared, the sentry that morning reported that a large party of Thalmor had passed west on the road early in the day. Argis and Jordis mounted and followed me out the gate as fast as their horses could be made to go.

"What are you going to when we catch up to them?" Argis asked some hours later. Our mounts were moving along just above a walk, refusing to be driven hard after the past week.

"I'd opened my mouth to say, "Kill every last one of them," when the depth of his question struck me: I was chasing eight motivated killers. The one called Achenar was totally unknown to me. His second was a mage who possessed at least three masks as ferociously powerful as the one belonging to Rhagot. I'd left _that_ mask with Morgan and Ghent for safekeeping. The remaining six strangers were well-equipped professional soldiers. Against this I was going to throw two men and a woman, sore from days in the saddle and tired to the point of stupidity.

"I'd hoped to be ahead of their camp one night. From there I could sneak in and steal whatever masks they have," I said uneasily.

"So you were going give that diamond on your arm a love tap and hope for the best?" Argis asked with barely contained scorn.

I shrugged, feeling foolish and somewhat defensive at having my 'plan' criticized. "Its worked before," I said lamely.

Argis groaned and shook his head, but said no more.

Undeterred by sensible advice given by a trustworthy person, I pressed on to our next waypoint. It was a frequently used site nestled into a fork in the road a day's ride east of Dragon Bridge. A ring of worn logs squatted around a deep fire-pit and a spring of wholesome water seeped out of the hills nearby. I left the road to the south as soon as I saw tents peaking up from the often-used campsite. The three of us moved parallel to the south fork for half a mile before preparing our camp near a graveyard of the Old People.

Nobody is sure who the Old People were. Their graveyards dot the landscape of central Skyrim, always consisting of dozens of smooth, narrow headstones. There is no writing on them that can be made out. Though each stone is decorated with a swirling relief pattern so shallow that the lines are only revealed at dawn and dusk, when their shadows become long and stark. Some say the Old People wrought the doom-stones of Cyrodiil but I doubt this, as that set of monoliths are covered with writing.

We were careful to pitch our tents well away from them. An old wives' tale insists that contact with the stones causes Blood Lung. I'm not sure I believe this, but I agree that the stones have an evil look and more credible reports describe necromancers frequenting these places exist. Knowing that certain places in Cyrodiil were likewise to be avoided, I took Argis and Jordis at their word and decided not to camp within the stones themselves.

Before long Magnus gave up on the sky. Masser and Scunda rose as a pair or crescents. An orange glow appeared a short way to the north. I crept toward the Thalmor camp, whispering the words to Aura Whisper and casting a spell of night-vision on the way.

I could see the four Altmer soldiers sitting around the blazing fire-pit. Their easy postures and Aura Whisper's hazy impressions revealed their senses of exhaustion and content after a day's riding. Their horses were staked a few yards away, all munching happily on the contents of the feed bags tied around their noses. A lone woman stood guard in her armor next to the livestock, facing the east. A man in the same uniform paced the arc between the roads to the west. In the largest tent, Aura Whisper showed me a spark of life that I guessed was the two leaders sharing a bedroll.

I took all this in from the dark well away from the campfire. Deciding that the pacing guard offered the weakest point in their defense, I eased onto my belly and began a worming motion with my legs to get across the road behind the guard and circle around to the large tent.

I was hardly four feet along when a powerful hand seized my ankle and made my stomach and heart come close to launching out of my mouth for fright. I looked back to see Argis shaking his head menacingly, the firelight causing his good eye to flash in the dark. "Look again," he commanded.

I obeyed and there he was, sitting on a log with food heating on a rock at his feet. His head was up and he was clearly alert for the least noise or motion. Worryingly, he was a faint spot in Aura Whisper where the soldiers around him glowed brightly. I swallowed at the thought of a mage powerful enough to resist the effects of the _Thu'um_.

"What gave him away?" I asked Argis.

He tapped his milky-white blind eye, "I only lost the bad eye."

I nodded-not understanding in the least-and wormed my way back from disaster. At our camp, Jordis had already packed and saddled our horses. I was grateful for their initiative and we rode away from the Thalmor. We crossed the Karth River into Dragon Bridge as the local saw mill began cutting the morning's orders.


	5. Breaking & Entering

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Hi team. It's two chapters this weekend. Because life has been good. Drop a review if you can.**

* * *

All of my haste to get to Solitude wound up making little difference. I needed only to go to Castle Dour and look at the Thalmor's headquarters tower to realize I wasn't going to be going through the guarded, inches-thick door.

There were just a handful of familiar faces at the Castle. Most of the senior Legion officers were gone. The bailey was packed with recruits day and night, learning the drill and step of the Legion's way of war. The clash of wood swords on shields competed with the shouts of centurions and decani instructing their charges in everything from caring for their armor to how to sing cadence and walk in formation. I left the crowded, secure camp and started asking delicately for the local Thieves' Guild 'representative'. Finding the Argonian not hard, though getting what I wanted out of him was. Finally the arrangements were made and I went to cool my heels at an inn near the construction site of my new Prouspire Manor six hundred Septims poorer.

A week later I was on the porch with a mug of coffee, watching the fog lift off the streets and Erikur's workers build my replacement house. I was not aware of my company until she spoke the pass phrase in a sharp, feminine voice, "Etienne is enjoying his diplomatic immunity." I turned to behold a diminutive, stunning Cyrodiil woman with pointed features and platinum blonde hair.

"Let's step inside. I have a tough one for you," I said while holding the door.

* * *

"What's with the mask?" I asked when I met the blonde woman that night along the waterfront beneath Solitude's great windmill. She was wearing the form-fitting blacks and low hood of her guild, but had added a thick scarf pulled tightly over her mouth and nose. Her small eyes sparkled in the dim light.

"Where we're going, you're going to wish you had a mask," she replied. We set off at a brisk walk north. She appeared to be counting her steps and looking high up on the cliff face to our left. We stopped again after a considerable walk.

"We climb here," she said simply, "Place your hands and feet where I do and do as I say without question," she said in clipped, almost hostile tones.

I bristled, "I didn't pay you a fortune to ignore your expertise. Just get me into and out of that tower."

She gave me a blank look for a second, "What fortune? This is a favor we expect returned."

I resolved in that moment to talk with the Guild representative.

It was a long climb but not a difficult one, the face of the cliff was eroded and offered countless handholds for those that were not daunted by the imposing height. We were slightly above the bottommost reaches of Solitude's great arch when we came to a narrow, winding path that brought us a few dozen more steps to a hidden door carved in the flowing Nordic style. Fixed to the door was the remnants of a wolf skull with large square nails through each eye pit. I felt superstitious fear grip my chest.

"You _can't_ be serious," I objected, "Do you know who's buried here?"

She rolled her eyes, "You wanted a way into the tower. This is it," she said simply.

"There's no manhole leading to the castle's sewer? No disused postern door?" I asked desperately. My parents used to promise that the Wolf-Queen would take me away to Oblivion when I behaved badly. After an early adulthood chasing desperate people into Ayleid ruins and exploring some of Skyrim's catacombs, I wondered how much my parents weren't lying.

"You kill dragons and break armies for a living. One necromancer— _if—_ she's awake should be well within your abilities. Now stop whining. It's unprofessional."

"Arkay, Akatosh, Talos, guard me where I fear to tread," I prayed aloud. I followed her into the Solitude catacombs, casting a spell of night vision and tapping my right arm along the way.

Our luck held out. Queen Potema was mercifully at rest when we went through her throne room. The piles of bones and scorch marks however, suggested that such was not always the case. As the thief led me through the mix of skull-lined catacombs and unfinished tunnels; I saw many signs of recent violence and even of habitation. I shuddered to think on what sort of person would want to _live_ down here.

Slowly she brought me to a series of hallways that had collapsed under the weight of the castle walls above or made narrower to shore up their tremendous burden by ancient engineers. At the end I found myself struggling sideways and lurching forward. With a final tug, the broken path tumbled me down into a large and dimly lit chamber.

A chamber that smelled foully of ash, shit, and rotten meat.

"I said you'd want a mask," my guide whispered when she heard me gasp.

"Gods! Where did you take me?" I asked as soon as I could draw a breath of rancid air.

She paced over to the large hole in the ceiling, "The sewers and catacombs are all connected under the city. If you know the layout well enough, you can reach anywhere on the surface without ever setting foot outside. We're in a sub-basement under the Thalmor office. The stairs up have been blocked off for centuries." She gestured to a bricked off arch in the dim light.

I walked over to her in the dim light, tripping over something on the floor that sent up a cloud of flies. I gazed up to see a wide shaft, almost six feet across, letting in an orange glow from above. After an hour or more in the pure darkness or the blue-tinted world of a night vision spell, the light was an eye-stinging glare. A few thick beams crisscrossed between the walls at intervals above our heads.

My guide's grappling hook caught the lowest of the beams on the first toss and she began climbing up with all the grace her form possessed. The rope barely swung from the vertical as she pulled herself up onto the first wide beam. I am a competent climber, but by no means graceful. With a great deal of grunting I pulled myself up to her level.

We repeated the process two more times. Each time I could almost hear her groaning inwardly at my clumsiness and noise. The last beam was a solid eight feet beneath the iron bars that capped the opening of the pit. My guide had me boost her up to the grate where she got to work releasing the locks and gently pulling the ironwork down.

She climbed out and waved me up after a quick look around. I gathered our rope and sprang up as high as I could. I caught the hanging metal in my hands and found myself swinging precariously. My feet flailed for purchase as I swung over the thirty-foot drop.

In a few seconds I got my body under control and with the thief's help found myself in an interrogation room lit by a hearth burning low. A few cages stood empty near a chair with straps and a desk behind it. I felt my guide tug my sleeve and followed her to the stairwell that spiraled up and to the right.

We passed a kitchen and a pantry before looking out on the main level. A large map table was placed in the center with benches and equipment racks lining the walls, making the space into a planning space and ready room for long expeditions. Two guards dozed lazily by the immense fireplace while a third leaned against the frame of the door. Not daring to leave the shadows of the stairwell, the two of us continued up.

My consultant and I found ourselves on the top floor in a large bedroom partitioned by bookcases and armoires into spaces for a beautiful four-post bed, dressing area, and a pair of offices. The one called Achenar slept in the bed with an Altmer woman in his arms. I chose to stay as far from the pair as I could, not daring to wake them. Instead I went to the offices and began reading the research papers and notes left on the largest desk while the thief addressed herself to the heavy safe being used as one of the bed's night stands.

I was still devouring Achenar's notes when I heard quiet moaning coming from the bed. I told myself it was just dreaming and continued my task. The moans became murmurs broken by the occasional giggle before I realized I was on a time limit. If this Achenar was anything like an average man, I had about ten minutes to finish up and clear out of the room.

The noise of creaking wood gave me a peculiar sense of security until the woman in the bed spoke, "The safe is open."

Their passion died like a snuffed candle. Magically summoned weapons flamed blue in their hands and a ball of blinding white light fixed itself to the ceiling. I watched the two elves search the room from my hiding place in the study. I could see no trace of my Thieves' Guild guide. As one they turned their eyes to the study and advanced. I felt my hand close around Revenant as I wedged myself between a bookcase and a dresser and held my breath. To this day I'm not sure how I didn't get caught. By all the Divines, I swear they both looked straight at me when they circled the small space and checked the notes on the table. From my hiding place, I whispered the words of power that I read at Shearpoint, " _Zul mey gut_." A sound like someone whispering came from the other side of the room in response to the whispered _Thu'um_. They turned and began to search the larger area more carefully. After what seemed like forever they departed down the stairwell.

I slid out of my hiding space as soon as their footsteps were gone. I looked about for the thief and she seemed to materialize from the air, perched somehow on one of the poster bed's upper rails. He back was pressed firmly against the ceiling. I helped her down, the tight muscles beneath her outfit reminding me briefly of Aela. She circled her index finger and pointed at a ladder to the roof. She made quick work of the lock and we were on the roof breathing fresh air again.

I guessed we had two minutes before the angry Thalmor below us remembered to search up here.

"What's the next move thief?" I asked. There were no handholds to be found however many times I circled the crenellations.

"I'm working on it," she snapped while looking at the guards pacing the walls and baily below us on the clear night.

"Fuck this," I whispered as the seconds ticked away, " _Ven mul riik!"_ Alduin's fog grew and thickened around us. In the space of a minute we could not see the walls scarcely fifty feet below us. I let the rope down into the fog and began rappelling down the side.

"They'll find the rope," my escort complained as we padded toward the chapel.

"Better than us," I shot back, looking carefully for a landing we could drop down to. She picked the lock on a side door a moment later. We passed into the sleeping church, down the stairs, and out through the front door. Two fuzzy shapes passing through an early morning fog. I refused to feel safe until I was back in my room.

"Did you get them?" I asked, too stressed out to be eager.

She shook her head and placed a single wooden mask on the table, "This was the only one in the safe. You're on your own for the others… unless you'd like to hire our services?"

"It'll be a while at Gulum-Ei's rates," I grumbled, "Thanks for coming on short notice. Remember: We never met. You were never near Castle Dour."

"Until next time Dragonborn," she said as she let herself out.

* * *

I didn't give my guide a second thought as I began writing down all I could remember of Achenar's notes. He had learned of several masks located in what he referred to as "places of protection." A spy in the College of Winterhold pointed him to Labyrinthian more than a year ago, but my wizard friends evidently beat him there. In another recorded setback, someone unknown to the Thalmor (myself) had killed Agent Valmir at Forelhost. Achenar reported success at Skuldafn, Shearpoint, and Highgate on the other side of Solitude's harbor. More promisingly, he'd located three other candidates: Valthume, Ragnvald, and Volskgge. I turned to a map spread on the floor. Back at my desk I wrote a letter for Argis to deliver:

 _Morgan and Ghent,_

 _Make your way to Solitude. Track me down from there. I'm most likely to be going to the Reach, but Jordis will know the route I took. On the way here see if Aela is well enough to travel. If so ask her to come. Give her my love in any event._

 _Make all haste,_

 _-Ieago_

 _P.S.: Bring the pieces of the past, they may be needed._

After sealing the letter, I fell into bed and slept.


	6. Facing the Enemy

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks.**

* * *

I was dreaming. I knew I was dreaming because I was in Battlehorn Castle. I was in the small room that I shared with Aeric and Jestin, two friends I hadn't seen in almost three years. Jestin was holding a letter from his wife over the brazier of coals, looking at it a last time before consigning it to the red-hot rocks. Aeric was dictating a letter for his sweetheart to me, the only one of the three of us who was literate.

We looked up at the sound of many feet running in the corridor, Knight-Brother Kay's face appeared in our chamber door, "Armor on and get to the walls. Right now," he said before running off. Jestin and I dropped our correspondence on the coals and stood with Aeric to don our gear.

We ran up the walls and looked about. The other Knights of the Nine and a handful of other mercenaries and refugees were already on the parapets, pointing and murmuring. I looked out on that cloudy day to see cavalry circling our castle and a substantial camp down the road from our gates.

"The Thalmor are coming," one of the mercenaries stated the obvious next to me on the wall. Already a human in a Tribune's uniform and a Thalmor Justiciar in black robes were approaching the gate. They disappeared under the stone at my feet and knocked a few seconds later.

A steel-plated fist banged on the door, "Open in the name of the Emperor!" a deep female voice bellowed outside.

I flopped on my bed like a fish and shot to the door. Still in last night's clothes, I stepped aside to admit General Tullius and Legate Rikke. Her glare over his shoulder said I should be worried. Tullius gave me a long, hard look before speaking.

"The Thalmor office at the castle was broken into last night," he said simply.

"How unfortunate for them," deadpanned, knowing both officers had noticed my filthy dark clothing, the map, the notes, and the stolen mask decorating my room.

"And damned inconvenient for me!" the general bit out, "Those elves are insisting I waste men and time on their _investigation_. I promised them the best, I'm sending them _you_. You will report their offices at noontime Quaestor."

I felt a pang of dread, "They'll know who I am sir," I objected.

"I've assured them that former Quaestor Ieago has been turned over to the militia of Eastmarch to face justice for the murder and assault of members of their guard. They think they'll be getting a Quaestor recently from Skingrad called Diocletian."

"I am to take another person's identity?" I asked dumbly, my imagination spending its time pondering the ways Tullius's scheme could end in disaster.

"Diocletian was a centurion who died at Helgen. Just _lie_ Ieago, It's not that hard."

"Am I being reactivated?" I asked, needing to hear it from the General's mouth, though I knew damn well that I was a legionnaire again.

"You are Diocletian. And before I go, you've been quiet these last few weeks apart from that outrage in Windhelm. Whatever stunt you're trying to pull, I trust you're keeping the interests of the Empire at the forefront of your thoughts. Am I understood?" His last question was full of angry menace.

"Inescapably sir."

"Good. Get it done Quaestor," he said and left with Rikke in tow.

* * *

Not long thereafter I was in legionary armor; being admitted to the Thalmor offices I'd broken into last night. A sneering man in gold livery bade me to wait in the ready-room and departed to inform his masters. In the space between his departure and their arrival, my platinum-blonde guide from last night could have given me a lecture on why I shouldn't return to the scene of my crime.

The light in the narrow windows had changed from midmorning white to afternoon yellow by the time I head footsteps coming downstairs. The two elves from last night stepped out of the stairs' enclosure and for the first time I beheld my newest enemies in plain daylight.

The justiciar was wearing her order's black robes with gold trim, though locks of frost-white hair escaped the low hem of her hood. The robes themselves hid most of her form, but could not conceal the feminine roll of her stride as she glided over the floor. Nor could her hood conceal a face that, as The Poet would say, could launch a thousand ships. I admired her small, sharp nose; fulsome lips; finely angled jaw; and smooth cheeks. It was a face that belonged to a stately angel, not to this daughter of a jackal. I recognized her as Nuala, the popinjay Ambassador Elenwen sent to enforce the White-Gold Concordant in Eastmarch.

Her companion was the polar opposite. His forehead might have risen above her shoulder, but not by more than an inch. His features, strangely rounded and ill-defined for an Altmer, were neither ugly nor handsome. They were merely present between the two pointed ears characteristic of his race. His only distinguishing trait was his hair. His long hair was jet black at one time, but now liberally flecked with gray and worn in a windswept braid. With his complexion somewhere between Bosmer tan and Altmer gold, his unmemorable features, and below-average height; he could have belonged to any community of elves on Tamriel.

Where Nuala's robes were immaculate, his clothes were on the verge of becoming shabby and threadbare. The tunic and trousers were almost the outfit of the Thieves' Guild, covered as they were in belts and pockets. The wooden handle of a machete stuck out from the small of his back. Long cracks were visible under the stained bandage wrapped around the wooden handle.

Yet for all his physical mediocrity, Achenar carried himself like a prince. His shoulders were exactly squared and his posture was as straight as the wall behind him. Where Nuala's face was frozen in a perpetual frown of contempt and suspicion; his face was composed with an easy and natural confidence that made him appear the more commanding of the two.

I came to a lazy parade rest, "The Quaestor Diocletian." I announced myself-no 'at your service,'-I thought it best not to mention service around these two.

To my surprise Nuala spoke first, "Guards! Arrest this man!" She yelled.

I only had time for my eyes to widen in shock before a brass-plated foot swept through my ankles and a hand shoved me face down on the floor. I felt a boot on my back and a sword tip on my neck.

Achenar stepped toward me, "Let's not be so hasty Justiciar. What has this man done?"

Nuala pointed at me, "This is Ieago. He is wanted for heresy, arson, assault, and murder of Thalmor agents, and robbery of the Embassy."

 _It's you!_ I thought to myself. This was the she-beast that broke into my house! That almost killed the woman I love! _And made Lydia the one to do it_.

He looked down at my prostrate form and back to Nuala with somewhat mincing, exaggerated movements.

"Are you certain Justiciar? I was informed that Ieago was rotting in a cell beneath the Palace of the Kings. He being turned over to the Nord government there for the killing of so many of their militia and the assault on their person. Some sort of gesture of respect by the Empire and a demonstration of the Nords' ability to effectively govern," His voice was cultured and every word came out with a precise, clipped inflection. It was a curious contrast against his weird, casual gestures.

Nuala's eyes flared with anger, "Then we were lied to. Here he is: An Imperial, fair complexion, about thirty, somewhat tall, slender build."

Achenar gave a noncommittal shrug, "My dear, you just described half the Imperial men in Cyrodiil. I'd challenge you to arrest them all—but the Justiciary has already tried!" He chuckled at his thin joke.

 _And you're the one I kill last!_ I thought from my place on the floor while my body quivered with contained anger. Even before my last stand at Battlehorn Castle, I'd known so many of my neighbors, friends, and relations to disappear in the night to be found on a cross days later if they were lucky.

"My lady," Achenar continued above me, "It's not like we have the time to have a runner travel to Windhelm, discover the truth, and return with a report. A critical artifact was stolen from us last night. Whoever this person is must know our errand and be seeking to thwart us!"

She shook her head, looking like an angry lioness. "This is too convenient. This man is wanted and we both know it!"

Achenar smiled like someone seeing a plan come together, "In that case, we must keep such a notorious criminal close and not lose sight of him. Such a man would also be useful to my ends."

 _They know._ I thought.

"The _Dominion's_ ends," she corrected, but conceded the point, "Let him up."

I felt the boot and the sword leave my back and picked myself up off the floor. Nuala looked down on me with all the severity her imposing height commanded. "If it turns out you are lying to us _Diocletian_ , your life is forfeit the moment you are no longer useful to us.

I straitened in the face of the threat, "The Legion is here for Skyrim, Justiciar. Not Alinor."


	7. Adventures with Achenar

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Hi team. I'm still here, still plugging away. Writing Dawnguard is proving to be weirdly challenging. I have all the events and characters I want in the mix, but putting it all together in an interesting way is slow going. I promise you that I will finish this. I refuse to be that author that posts an unfinished story.**

* * *

Our horses' hooves made a chorus of thumping and clattering as the twelve of us trotted along the packed earth and paving stones. Solitude's spires were hidden by the arms of the Haafingar Mountains, leaving us riding through a pleasant alpine countryside with a sweeping view of Hjaalmarch to our left. The bulk of our convoy was the nine Thalmor soldiers that rode in a disordered cluster behind us. Nuala rode before them. I was next forward, doing my best to enjoy the glorious spring day while trapped in the chafing leather and plate of my _lorica_. Well forward of the rest of us, Achenar led the way. He guided us to the west and slightly south, taking roads that pointed to the highlands that joined Haafingar to the Reach.

In my travels during the Civil war and earlier, I'd noticed several complexes of old settlements in this region, but never explored them. I was more than happy with having survived Bleak Falls Barrow, Ustengrav, Skuldafin, and Forelhost. Morgan and Ghent remain steadfast in their silence on their exploits in the avenues beneath Bromjunarr. These vacant cities were never safe places. It bothered me to no end that I appeared to be the only one apprehensive about the locations we were about to explore.

"What do you know of these ruins?" Nuala's voice broke into my thoughts. She'd brought her horse up to mine to have the conversation I'd known she wanted since I walked into the Thalmor headquarters.

I tensed for a second before shrugging. "Very little Justiciar," I replied, thinking fast about how much I could lie before getting caught. I decided to risk the truth as far as I could, "If they're anything like the Ayleid cities back home, I'm not happy we're entering them."

Nuala took the bait, "So you've spent time picking over the graves of our cousins? What could their glorious cities have in common with the rock piles of this backwater?"

I smiled, grateful for the opportunity to throw her off balance, "From what I've found, both places eat arrogant sorceresses alive," I answered.

Nuala actually laughed, "Then I'm glad you're here. Having someone as expendable as you in front of me makes me feel far safer. Unless you're more than you claim?"

I struggled to suppress the sneer developing on my face and smooth the livid rasp in my throat when I insisted, "I am only a Quaestor of His Majesty's Legions."

* * *

"Welcome to Volskygge!" Achenar exclaimed in his melodious voice. It was a boiling late spring day when we approached the eroded remnants of a fortress. I'd left my heavy cuirass bundled behind my saddle and all the buckles and straps of my skirmisher's armor were hanging loose. My legion-issue steel greaves and the straps of my bracers rubbed my skin raw in the sweaty heat. The only relief was an infrequent warm wind coming off the mountain in front of us.

"It doesn't look like much to me," Nuala said. She alone of the twelve of us seemed to be undisturbed by the heat.

"Nonsense. This place is a fine example of mythic-era architecture. Peasants would have been able to see this place for miles when they came to hear their priest's decree." Achenar said while wiping his brow. He appeared genuinely impressed by the sunken ruin we were approaching.

"Looks like an overgrown pile of rocks," Nuala said as we strode through a large breach in the curtain wall and into a partially filled courtyard.

I looked around, seeing many familiar sights. The high walls, partially embraced by the millennia's worth of soil eroding down the mountain, served two purposes at once. In their day they kept rival tribes of Atmorans, Falmer, and Dwemer out. They were also used to intimidate those who were allowed within. At regular intervals against the walls an age-pitted iron spike was embedded in the earth or the base of an old hook jutted out somewhat higher than a tall man could reach. In the small rooms built into the walls, I saw the shadows of old gibbet-cages. Dozens of people at once would have seen their final hours or days here.

I felt weak just contemplating the lord who handed down this kind of condemnation on so regular a basis that twenty-three people were not ready to come down when the twenty-fourth was put up. It's not that the punishments were unusual. The Thalmor delighted in nailing Talos-worshipers to large wooden 't's. Sometimes the Legion or local militias beat wayward soldiers within an inch of their lives; and every city in Cyrodiil, Morrowind, Highrock, and Skyrim had its gallows platform, stocks, and crow cage. But this was Forelhost-level brutality.

"You lack imagination," Achenar replied to Nula while standing before a small, beautifully carved double door. "Once this whole place would have been carved with relief just like the one on this door. Get it open men."

I wondered if the carvings were a relief to the people impaled or hung on the walls.

It took two of the soldiers with us to open the rusted door enough to let us in one at a time. Within was near total darkness. Nuala obliged us with a brilliant spell that let us light torches and expose another door leading deeper into the ruin.

The space beyond was a large chamber set up as a hall of judgment or petition. This large square room was centered on a menacing stone chair, but was otherwise unfurnished. The tattered remnants of banners hung from the four columns occupying each corner. I was selected to cross the space first. I did so, but thought it best to stay well away from the seat of the judge who passed the sentences outside.

The soldier following me a few paces behind was not so easily daunted. He stopped to examine the stone seat. As I turned to wait for the rest of the elves he reached out to the arm of the chair. The soldier must have found a lever or pressure plate. I heard the telltale puffs of air I'd learned to dread in Cyrodiil's ruins and snapped my head around to the soldier. My shouted warning came too late to save the curious soldier as dozens of poisoned darts flew in at him from the ceiling.

Nuala, and I rushed in to tend to him, but he was already beyond help.

Achenar turned to address the rest of the group, "Chayton didn't have to die this afternoon," he said in a calm voice that became rapidly angrier. "If you see anything that stands out, anything that grabs your attention and demands you investigate it, stay far, far away! Point it out to me, your Justiciar, or the Quaestor then banish it from your thoughts!"

Whatever evil things I might have said of Achenar's appearance, personality, or ethics, I admired his professionalism. In the brief time I worked for him I learned much that made exploring dangerous ruins safer for me and those with me. We advanced in a strictly enforced silence. The remaining soldiers were ordered to walk in a double line down the narrow halls and to spread into a square in the open chambers. I was on point continually, with Nuala breathing down my neck, looking for the slightest proof that I was not who I claimed to be.

I was sorely tempted to use my talents too. Even without the _Thu'um_ or the sensory enhancement spells I knew, there was plenty to mark me as exceptional. Hercine's lingering gifts of enhanced hearing and smell revealed the shambling draugr long before they came into the dim torch light. It took a great presence of mind not to face them when they lingered in the empty blackness beyond the torches and the harsh illumination of Nuala's spells.

The undead were determined to have us join them. They told us so on every occasion with their abominable croaking voices. One of Achenar's soldiers did. I heard two slide from their alcoves behind us and walk up to the edge of the space illuminated by the torches. The one restless draugr with a great sword began padding behind the soldier at the rear and closest to the right wall. The other carried a war axe and approached Achenar, who had drifted to the rear of our formation. I found myself grinding my teeth with frustration. I heard the draugrs' careful footfalls and faintly saw their movement in the corners of my eyes when I looked about. But while they were in the dark and the Altmer around me didn't notice them, I could not warn my charges. The survivors would be curious about how I'd detected two threats behind the party in total darkness.

The restless draugr were looming large behind their victims before I thought anyone noticed them. " _Aav Dilon_!" the draugr with the great sword shouted as he sent his blade through the back of the Thalmor soldier. The axe wielder raised his weapon high and rushed Achenar.

Achenar was a sly opponent. Before the draugr was within a step of him, he had his worn machete in hand and whispered a word that made cobalt blue flame leap from the blade. It slashed through the leather-tough skin of the undead soldier in a swift, efficient motion and came up to address the remaining draugr as it shrugged the soldier off his blade. A fireball from Nuala stuck the dead Nord as I drew my _spathe_ and approached to help Achenar subdue the threat.

Achenar turned out to be a competent duelist, but not a particularly powerful one in a protracted fight. He parried the next swings of the draugr, but never would plant himself for a lethal blow with his flaming weapon. Worse, the draugr Shouted at Achenar.

" _Zun haal viik_!" The dead man yelled. I had the time to think _weapon, hand, defeat_ when Achenar's machete went flying from his hand. He evaded the following attacks with his peculiar grace. Fortunately for him, he didn't need to for very long. I came up on the draugr's right and stabbed my blade hard between his ribs as he raised his arms to deliver a crowning blow. My sword drove deep, interrupting the spells that animated his body. The old Nord shut down and fell to my feet. Achenar nodded his thanks and retrieved his blade from the ground where it lay ten feet away.

Three more draugr met similar fates, though Achenar never joined combat again. Instead he kept close to me. It was an astute, if self-serving insight. The draugr showed a clear preference for attacking the Altmer before me. Nuala was often the primary target. The Draugr behaved as if driven by some lingering impulse of hate and suspicion toward elves and mages. A second soldier caught between a draugr's Shouts and Nuala's spells had to be dragged away by his companions.

We thought to rest for a moment in a spacious dining hall. The wounded soldier was seated in a chair by his comrades, only to be finished off by a tremendous sword released from the celling even as they treated his wounds.

"My gods!" I exclaimed, "Who traps every room in their house?" I demanded. Skuldafin hadn't been this eager to kill people. I was beginning to wonder if I'd be the only one to walk out.

Achenar shrugged from the opposite side of the banquet hall while the remaining soldiers lay their butchered comrade out on the table. "I'm thinking the priest here took the idea of ruling through fear of force a step further: he wanted plenty of reminders of how everyone was dependent on him they were for their safety. But what war or rebellion made him go to all this trouble? I couldn't begin to guess. Unfortunately the Nords were very thorough at burying their secrets from the earliest ages. Who knows what pressures drove the priest here to behave this way?"

I shook my head in anxiety, took a deep slow breath to steady my frayed nerves, and absentmindedly tapped my right shoulder. Achenar glanced at the rest of the soldiers and gestured me toward the hall deeper into the mountain halls.

By turns he brought us through the collapsed corridors and around the shattered furnishings of the 'living' spaces of Volskygge. We were seldom checked by a dead end: Achenar's preternatural sense of direction led us steadily onward. We were forced to stop in square room of medium size with the passage opposite ours blocked by a portcullis.

"What was this room for?" Nuala wondered aloud. She was standing at one of the four plinths that occupied the corners of the room. Each was made of stone carved to waist height and had a wooden t-handle on its top. The face of each stone was carved with the profile of a common animal in Skyrim: A snake, a fox, a bear, and a wolf were represented. In the midst of the room were three upright sarcophagi flanking a draugr woman seated on a stone chair. She supported an open book in her lap, held as if she were a teacher showing illustrations to a group of absent students.

"This seems to be a variation on the Nordic puzzle-lock," Achenar explained as he leaned in slightly to peer at the seated draugr and the book she held. "The old priests were fond of them because they helped keep sacred areas exclusive to people properly indoctrinated into the faith. The most difficult to access were a type of ringed door that could only be opened with a sort of model dragon claw."

I held back my initial reaction to Achenar's knowledge of Nordic tombs. "It seems very elaborate," I observed instead.

"But the sense is there," Nuala replied in a surprisingly appreciative tone. "If you are sufficiently well-versed in or intelligent enough to understand the logic of The Faith, you pass the test and proceed."

"And if you fail?" I asked as one of the solders puled the handle on the plinth with the fox insignia.

The door behind us clanged shut and the lids of the coffins fell forward with a frightening crash. Three draugr with swords and shields stepped out and turned on the nearest Altmer. The teacher's eyes flared blue before she rose stiffly and threw her book at the solder who pulled the fox handle.

"Then you're a heretic or simply unworthy. You must be punished for your effrontery," Achenar explained while drawing his machete. The teacher summoned a shard of ice and launched it at the surprised elf that had been struck by her book. It caught him in the neck as she continued her attack with a spray of cold frost from her left hand and more ice spikes from her right.

The noise of violence and fear filled the room. Nuala sent bolts of flame at the teacher while two of the solders tried to keep her safe from two of the attacking draugr. The larger of the two grabbed one of the elves by his wrist and pulled him on to his comrade's sword.

"Achenar!" I shouted as I sprinted to Nuala's aid. My worry for her safety was short lived. I drove my sword into the spine of one draugr while the Thalmor solder cut at his throat. The second draugr went flying into the wall with a dry, splintering crunch and went dormant. I looked to see Acheanr standing over the pieces of the last wight with his flaming machete in one hand and making a shoving gesture toward Nuala and me with the other.

That he was capable of such a forceful spell in the middle of a fight caught me off guard, though he looked worn down. I guessed that most of his magical effort had been spent in that one dreadful push. Nuala looked tired as well. Her collection of fire spells, wards, and healing cantrips were getting frequent use as the number of escorts dwindled.

"They seem to leave the Quaestor alone," one of the four remaining soldiers observed with palpable fear in his voice.

"The Nords fought our kind for generations," Achenar observed. "While the Quaestor is not exactly welcome here, he is at least not a total stranger."

"More importantly, how do we get out of here?" I asked by the door leading back the way we came. It was sealed so tight I couldn't see the seam in the middle or find a keyhole that I could pick. My throat was dry at the sight of another burial mask carved on the face of the door. I knew what was coming and felt very afraid. Aela and I survived our battle with Rhagot through acts of desperation and the fullest use of our abilities. These Altmer were dying off left and right. I found their bodies strewn around Skuldafn like trash on a street and Krosis's ledge at Shearpoint was a mess with signs of the battle.

"Let's see why the teacher threw the book at poor Saulion," Achenar's clipped voice broke into my anxious thoughts.

Our leader walked over to the book on the floor, picked it up gently, and began to read:

 _All four are bound to the same land as we._

 _Some lay low, consumed in shadow,_

 _Others stand tall, stretching their necks to see._

 _While none live in this sacred barrow,_

 _They all demand your attention if you are to proceed._

 _The first fears all, The second fears none._

 _The third eats what it can, Preferably number one._

 _The fourth fears the third, But only when alone._

 _All must be activated in order, If you wish to go home._

"A nursery riddle? They brought _children_ into this horrid chamber?" I asked in shock.

"It would seem so Quaestor. But it ought not to be hard to solve in that case if you are passingly familiar with animals…"

I picked up on his hint, "The first is the snake," I said, "Bears are fearless while foxes eat snakes. Lone wolves are vulnerable, but I've seen packs tear apart bears that weigh as much as four wolves."

"I'm glad so much of your education was in the woods of the Nibenay Basin," Achenar observed slyly as I pulled the four handles in sequence.

I was sharp enough that day to know a test when I heard one. "I'm from the western portion of Cyrodiil, Achenar," I corrected him with real pride in my tone. "I spent most of my life in Colovia, the West Weald, and the Gold Coast."

I saw Achenar and Nuala exchange a look before I strode over to the opening portcullis and waited for the surviving members of our expedition to form behind me.

* * *

Our path rose steadily up within the mountain after that riddle-locked room. Despite my increasing misgivings, we could only go forward: The door with the carved mask on it was immovably shut. The barrow halls, shrines, and chapels we walked through were utterly tame after the gauntlet of the outer areas. No draugr woke to molest us and the traps were few and clumsily implemented. The large round trigger plates protruded obviously from the floor and their associated swinging grates readily visible on their hinges. I felt like the ancient architects had run out of inspiration and called it a day.

A scant hour after watching five people die, we crossed a bubbling subterranean stream, went up a flight of broad stairs, and emerged onto a great awning that overlooked the wilds to the east. On a clearer day, I'm sure Solitude would have been visible. Achenar led us directly up a final flight of stairs in the summer haze. Before us stood word wall sheltering a massive slate coffin.

"This is it!" Achenar exclaimed, standing over the lone sarcophagus, "Two of you! Get this lid off! Get ready for a fight everyone!"

I drew my legionary blade and glanced at the looming word wall. I felt a mean and secret pleasure in being the only one of our party who could read it. I was hoping it would say something like 'Here lies a nice guy. He was very popular and we all miss him. Rest in peace friend.'

Instead the inscription was more typically ominous. The word _nah_ becoming _fury_ in my mind while burning brightly:

 _Here is one who did_

 _Reap what he has sewn:_

 _Volsung: Lord of the Moths._

 _Brought low by his own red fury._

The soldiers pried the lid off with a crash. Foolishly, one leaned in to inspect the desiccated figure within. A black spindle of an arm shot up to grasp the man's face. Nails of sharpened bronze dug into the eyes and cheeks of the screaming elf. The running blood became rivulets of flame as the litch rose from its grave. The expressionless mask glowered down on its captive. The monster touched the head of its staff to the soldier's chest, blasting a hole in the poor man a foot wide. The wight dropped its victim as I rushed. Too late, an invisible fist grabbed the other soldier by the coffin and flung him at me. I ducked the body and it hit the wall behind me hard enough to make the soldier's malachite cuirass crack.

My blade connected with the floating litch and a shock went up my arms like I had struck a block of steel. I shifted my grip to try again as Nuala's first blast of fire engulfed Volsung and roasted me in the heat. Again and again I slammed the burning wight with my blade, fighting back the waves of agony its spells caused. Nuala's indiscriminate onslaught was only interrupted when the litch used potent counter spells or flung a crumpled wad of moonstone and blood at her.

Things were getting desperate. The Altmer soldiers were little more than well-equipped ammunition to be flung or torn apart if they missed parrying that wicked staff. I reached out and grabbed the burning creature's mask, holding him in place while I stabbed. The mask came away suddenly in my mangled hand. Volsung disintegrated into ash without a sound over the bloody remains of the soldiers.

The mask itself was burned onto my hand. My left arm was seared up to my shoulder. I felt cold and sick. The pain began to abate and the mask fell from my burnt palm as Nuala's healing spell began to propagate through my damaged body.

"You look a mess," Achenar said to me when Nuala was done. Black marks lingered among a pattern of red welts and blisters on my arm. Half the hair on my head was gone and the sharp smell of burned skin and hair was almost unbearable.

"I'm sorry about your men," I said.

Achenar shrugged and stooped to gather up the mask and hand Volsung's staff to Nuala. "They served their purpose Diocletian. I'm sure we can find more young fools to replace them with."

"What now?" I asked, deciding to ignore his callous remark.

"Old Hroldan Inn. There are several places to investigate near there,"

With that he beckoned for Nuala to follow while I slowly brought up the rear.


	8. Interview with the Altmer

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks.**

* * *

We were camped a few days later in the remains of the Legionary camp at Robber's Gorge. The many wooden piles of the wall were becoming loose and the trampled patches were the tents had been pitched the previous autumn and winter were growing in. I didn't doubt that a pack of bandits would move in sometime over the summer to extract "tolls" from wayfarers. Eventually they would be bold enough to become a problem spot on the maps of the Hjaalmarch and Whiterun guards. Before that the Companions would probably be hired to recover hostages and stolen cargos; or if we were lucky, get a royal commission to drive the bandits out.

For the moment though, I was ending my afternoon bath in the nearby river. I was letting myself warm up in the sun when Nuala's voice came from a few feet behind me.

"You acquitted yourself well in the barrow," she said simply.

I started slightly before turning. I gave Nuala a slight bow, doing my best to ignore the fact that I was naked. My inborn vanity took over for a moment, obliging me to straighten my posture and square my shoulders before this undeniably beautiful female.

With a twinge of regret, I remembered that it had been almost three months since Aela last fell asleep with her head on my chest. In a burning flash of hate, I recalled that it was this person that hurt the woman I love.

"I saw a threat and moved to end it," I replied stiffly before turning back to the stream and wading in.

"You're far too modest," she said behind me. To my shock and dread her words accompanied the sounds of clothes falling to the ground.

I turned and watched her pace out into the stream. I've always had it in my head that Altmer women are invariably tall, emaciated creatures; devoid of muscle or fat to give their skeletons a lovely form. Nuala proved me wrong. The whole of her supple body was on display as she cupped a handful of water and let it run down her pale golden skin.

"Nonsense," she cooed at me. "That dungeon killed nine experienced solders. Three of them survived both Battles of the Red Ring."

"Then I grieve for their loss. My father would never speak of the last battles. They were too bitter for him," I replied without thinking.

She turned to me, all pretenses of modesty gone. My mouth went dry at the sight. It may seem ill of me that I should find someone other than my wife desirable. In my defense Aela is the only one I would ever make love with.

"So you do have a past, Quaestor! And here I thought you were born of General Tullius's imagination!" Nuala said while leaning forward before me to cup more water over her magnificent body.

I was weary of her hinting by now. And her striptease, though unnerving at first, was quickly rendered lame by its cheapness, "Tell me Justiciar," I said as I moved up the bank and away from her, "In the course of your investigations, are you forbidden from asking direct questions?"

She rolled her eyes and arched her back, causing her large, firm breasts to appear to inflate. She spoke to me like a master to an untalented novice, "In my experience Quaestor, direct questions lead to bad answers. Criminals are ready to lie to direct inquiries. _But_ , on a long enough timeline, people with guilty knowledge _always_ incriminate themselves."

"You seem to be quite the investigator," I remarked sarcastically.

Nuala gave me a penetrating look up and down before speaking, "I'll start with the obvious and work from there. You're of that mongrel Cyrodiil breed of human. You have red hair, which hints at long-buried Nordic or Breton heritage. By your accent and mannerisms, you come from Colovia. (At least you're honest about _that_!) Though pallid in complexion, your face is weathered: you spend a great deal of time outside, probably wearing a hood or hat. You've seen a great deal of violence. Scars from altercations and calluses from you armor and weapons cover your body. How am I doing so far?" She asked, but before I could reply she dove into the waist-deep water.

I waited for Nuala to finish wringing her hair before replying, "You're correct, but these conclusions could be drawn by any observant person."

She arched her eyebrows, "That may be true Diocletian, but Clavicus hides in the details they say. Tullius assured me that you're an experienced officer of the Legion. Yet you lack the scar on your neck from the Legionary helmet's chin strap. Which means you haven't been a Legionnaire very long, if ever. Your swordplay includes chopping motions not taught to the rank-and-file and you switch to a two-handed grip that few sword-and-shield legionary recruits would think to use. Further, you keep rubbing at a spot above your right bicep. There is no scar there to be seen, so you are rubbing at some missing device or talisman, also things not common among legionnaires: They bear their devices on their shields," Her voice took on a hard edge, "So tell me Quaestor, why did Tullius send me a common adventurer and tell me you were an officer?"

I forced a shrug and hoped it appeared relaxed, "I am an officer of the Legion, but I didn't rise in the usual manner. The Stormcloak Rebellion killed several Quaestors and the survivors didn't go out of their way to win the affection of the provincials. So General Tullius started asking the counts in Cyrodiil for fresh faces who might be qualified to become troubleshooters."

I took a breath and concocted the next section of my back story, "I was a guard in Skingrad when I took the Legion's offer. And you're right: I used a great sword while I was a city guard. When Captain Artorius brought the offer to me, I took it."

Nuala spread her feet apart slightly and placed her hands on her hips. This was not part of her earlier display to force me off balance, but a stance of triumph and vindication. We both knew I was losing the exchange, but the game needed to be played. "I'm guessing you were the only one offered. Someone this Captain Artorius was eager to be rid of?"

That insight made me start. Had I not joined the Knights of the Nine, my habit of winking at certain religious practices would have become increasingly problematic for my superiors.

"There are…decisions I've made that some people found awkward," I admitted; thinking briefly on the family and friends I left behind in Colovia. It was not often that I was made to dwell on how much I'd left behind. My heart quivered with a rare spasm of homesickness.

Satisfaction lit her features and I confess that Nuala's genuine smile was almost beautiful. "A troublemaker?" She grinned, "And what laws were you ignoring for _your_ greater good?"

I fixed her with my most menacing scowl, "At least my _greater good_ doesn't involve making my neighbors disappear in the middle of the night," I answered.

But Nuala was too busy savoring her victory to reply. "A Cyrodiil renegade. You've done something worthy of exile _and_ you're self-righteous. Your sins are going to catch up to you and when they do, you'll crack like an egg."

With that final threat she turned and dove deep into the stream. I finished dressing and walked back to our camp, feeling worried that after all this time, the Thalmor might end my exile and freedom.


	9. Reunions

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Head up team: This chapter is part of why I rated these stories M.**

* * *

The day was cooling off nicely as the sun set over the Druadach Mountains. The cheery yellow glow of torch bugs and Old Hroldan Inn's windows beckoned me forward. The air was still and clear beneath a sky fading from cerulean to violet, just dark enough for the brightest stars to shine overhead. Silhouettes of drunks swayed and stumbled among a group of tents adjacent to the inn. Their laughter echoed off the shoulders of the mountains nearby. The whole of the inviting scene filled the evening air with a promise of good company. I hoped that Aela, Ghent, Morgan were within and waiting for me.

I needed the break. The days since Nuala's bath time interview were a sore trial. That same evening, she had dragged Achenar off for a long and hushed conversation well away from my place near the fire. They'd come back without their ordinary nightly adventures. Achenar had looked bewildered and Nuala triumphant. Since that evening most of their packs had merged with mine and we marched from dawn to dusk at a furious pace. Though long habituated to travel under a load and unwilling to show weakness before my prosecutor, I had trouble keeping up with the two unburdened elves. By the time I stood before the door of Old Hroldan Inn after the past week, my thought process could not get itself beyond a dark corner of the common room, an order of beer and beef, and a pretty girl bringing those things to me.

I threw open the door to the familiar heat of a crowd and the smell of rancid mead and sweat. The bulk of the barflies were a half-cohort of light infantry. Someone was playing a mandolin, but the melody was drowned beneath the clapping, stomping, and howled lyrics of a popular Breton drinking song. The singers were repeatedly advising all who could hear that you shouldn't just "go for the one."

In an open space by the bar, I beheld Ghent and Morgan dancing furiously. The diminutive Breton gazed up at her towering lead. Their eyes were wide and faces were flushed. I saw one or two legionnaires eyeing her over their shoulders while a few of the female soldiers looked ready to shove Morgan aside for a dance with the handsome and talented Ghent.

Then Nuala in her robes stepped out from behind Achenar and me. The music faltered and died. No one allows themselves an unguarded moment when a black robe is nearby.

"Perhaps some among these fools would be willing to join the Quaestor on our tasks?" Nuala half-ordered into my ear.

I nodded stiffly, "I'll take care of it. Just don't scare them away."

"See to it," she replied before moving to confront the publican.

I slipped off toward the darkest of the four corners. The crowd parted before me. My bracers identified me as a legionnaire so the staring was suspicious rather than hostile. Achenar took a stool by the hearth and began unlacing his boots. I sat down with my back to the room and hoped a pretty waitress would be over soon with my first round.

The woman who placed my first beer before me was pretty, but not a waitress. "Where the fuck have you been?" Morgan's Highrock accent demanded as she sat down to my right.

"Give him a second Morgan," Ghent said as he sat down on the other side of me, "He smells like he went swimming in a tanner's pool before rolling in a dyer's yard."

I shot Ghent a withering look, "Thanks kids. I've had a rough week," I said aloud, and then softly, "How are Aela and Lydia?"

"Lydia's awake and at Jorrvaskr—relearning how to walk," Morgan said glumly.

I felt my heart skip at the news and prayed her days as a warrior weren't over. "And Aela?" I asked with a tremor in my voice.

Ghent was about to reply when I heard an icky thump from the other side of the room. "The next Imperial to grab my leg and offer me a drink is a dead man!" Aela exclaimed from her bench while a man reeled away with blood streaming down his face.

My blood ran hot and fast at the sight of her. She was in the barely intact draugr armor she favored, her glorious slender body on display to those with the courage to look. But her hair, that wonderful autumn red mane, was cropped shorter than mine. The scars of her recent battering were plain to see like cracks spidering out from an impact on stone.

I strode over and sat next to the volatile woman. I leaned over to whisper in her ear while sliding a hand in her top to pinch a nipple, "Then how about we skip the drink and go fuck?" I proposed to my wife.

A ferocious snarl escaped her mouth as an elbow to my throat blasted me off the bench. The world spun, shook, and flickered as I landed hard on my back. Aela was straddling me before I could see again. Seemingly out of nowhere, knife was in her hand. She buried the tip in the floorboards above my skull, grasped my aching head in her powerful archer's hands and kissed me fiercely. We could have cared less about the cheering and whistling around us.

I managed to grip some of her hair and pulled Aela away, exposing her graceful neck and glorious breasts in the process. "You want to make a fight of this shield-maiden? Then we shall take it outside!" I declared.

She licked her lips and stood with the grace of a cat, "Challenge accepted legionnaire!" she called over her shoulder while her swaying hips lured me out the door.

Our lips crashed together a few paces after the inn was out of sight. I'd missed how she smelled faintly of pine trees. I missed how her sweet her mouth tasted after an evening drinking mead. I missed her gentle moans when we held one another close. I missed how she would paw at my chest while we kissed. A whole season had gone by since I'd seen her and by the gods, how I had missed Aela.

"I like the new haircut," I lied once we broke for air.

"It makes me look like a little boy. I'm not cutting it again until it reaches the bottom of my back," Aela vowed.

The idea of Aela with almost three feet of coppery hair only made me want her more. I began to work on the buckles and straps that held her clothing in my way.

"You've kept me waiting here for days," she scolded as her breasts were exposed to the starlight, "You owe me."

"Owe you what?" I whispered into her ear.

"Be creative," she commanded and squawked as I bit one of her breasts.

She tried to push me off, but I held one hand tight over her spine and kneaded her behind with my free hand. I felt her squirm against me and moan gently when I softened my bite and let my tongue play on her soft skin.

* * *

We came back to the inn a long while later. A large circle was gathered around Achenar's chair at the end of the fire pit. He held the barmaid in one hand and drank generously from a bottle of wine in the other.

 _Charismatic viper_. I thought to myself as his audience broke out in fits of laughter. He raised his bottle in a happy salute when he noticed Aela and I walking in. "I trust the Quaestor was to your satisfaction shield-maiden?" He called over the crowd.

For the first time in the almost three years we'd known each other, I saw Aela blush pink. "Every inch of him was to my satisfaction," she answered and turned to me with her hands on her hips, "But the officer has yet to tell me his name." To my unending surprise the smile on Aela's face, a woman so private, was as huge and genuine as the one she gave me that first night in Solitude.

Our audience roared their approval.

I turned and bowed deeply to my wife, "The Quaestor Diocletian, at you service."

Aela smiled like the predator she was, grabbed my wrist, and started dragging me to her room like a cat carrying a prize to its home. " _Good_. I still require your services," she declared through the applause.


	10. The A Team

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Hi everyone, thanks for reading, I'm glad you chose to. Fave, follow, and if you have a chance, toss a review into the mix.**

* * *

"Tell me again how you came to be working for Thalmor agents?" Aela asked with a perplexed expression on her features.

The four of us were taking breakfast by the edge of the Kath River. I'd brought my friends and Aela well away from the inn early that morning to explain how I needed their help.

"I tracked them to Solitude, broke into their offices, store Achenar's research, and this wooden mask," I explained, pulling the thing from my backpack.

Morgan gasped and snatched the mask from me, "Are you really this stupid or did you take classes?" She almost yelled at me, "You kept their shit after stealing it? What's to stop them from searching your gear?"

"Are either of them suspicious of who you are?" Aela asked.

I sighed, reliving the last week, "They know godsdamn well who I am. I think Achenar doesn't care—I'm a resource to be used. Nuala, she wants a confession or some kind of unequivocal proof of my identity—Shouting, people who know me, Revenant. For whatever reason it's not enough for her just to name me. So as far as you're concerned," I looked to each companion in turn, "I am a Quaestor who hired the three of you for 500 septims each and shares of any loot from the tombs. I didn't tell you why we need to explore the ruins.

"Did you bring the other masks?" I asked after a pause. They nodded, "After I broke in, the next morning Tullius and Rikke bang my door down, tell me I'm a Quaestor again, and I'm to aid the elves' investigation. They told me my name was Diocletian."

"Why is nothing with you ever safe?" Ghent complained aloud.

"So what did you discover from Achenar's research?" Aela asked.

"He has learned of nine masks and currently has four, with two more to be found out here. This combines with the two we have."

"So the wooden mask must be the ninth," Ghent observed.

I shook my head and scratched the back of my neck, "I don't think so. Achenar kept calling it a 'key' in his research. But if he knew how to use it, he didn't write it down."

At that moment, Aela tapped my arm in warning. A long minute later, Nuala and Achenar came into view. Worried, I glanced at Aela. She shook her head and I relaxed slightly. The two Altmer hadn't been close enough to eavesdrop.

As usual they were a study in contrast. Nuala's face was fixed in that superior frown that all Justiciars tend to adopt. Her angelic looks, golden complexion, and her race's inherent moving elegance mixed together to give the illusion that she glided over the path.

The Grace of the Aldmer appeared to have scorned Achenar, however. His tanned, weather-beaten face was positively beaming, though his large, pale green eyes were ringed with the marks of a ferocious hangover. As he stomped along in the morning light, I saw again how worn and stained he allowed his gear to become. He spoke to us as he stepped out from Nuala's towering shadow.

"Good morning Quaestor! Who are your new companions? I spoke with the shield-maiden last night, but I am very sorry to say that I was not introduced," he said.

I admit that it was hard not to like him. With his strange, antique speech pattern, you would expect to find Achenar strolling the fashionable districts of Imperial City or Firsthold, wearing a monocle and wielding a brass-handled cane as he strode down the avenues. Yet here he was in the wilderness, a member of a species hated by the natives, exploring the most dangerous locations, and willfully enjoying every minute of it.

I gestured in turn to my friends and my wife, "These are Morgan and Ghent, lately of the College of Winterhold. Evidently they've come out here to investigate who exactly built the ruins along the western borders. Their bodyguard is Aela the Huntress of the Companions. I've convinced them to join us for the time we're in the Reach."

"I'm sure your mercenaries will prove very useful to us Diocletian," Nuala said, "I hope they last longer than their predecessors."

I felt my throat tighten, "I have every faith in the people I work with," I said stiffly.

* * *

The oppressive heat of last week had given way to a weather pattern of steady rain alternating with dense fog. A dark grey shape in the pale grey mist, Achenar was a few yards ahead of me, framed by the darker grey of the ravine our road followed. Aela was on my heels. We were having trouble suppressing our long habit of walking side-by-side. The other two 'fools' I had 'hired' for Achenar had no reason to conceal their long association and bickered happily behind us. A persistent threat, Nuala hovered like a pale wraith in the mist; looking for the least evidence to damn me.

Nuala's incessant scrutiny had gotten old as soon as we departed Solitude, but now that I was among familiar people it was worse. Every comment and gesture I made to my lover or friends had to be carefully thought out. Anything hinting at familiarity had to be suppressed: the desire to ask after them, to hear of my other friends, or news of the Companion's doings. Even asking too much about the rebuilding of Windhelm would destroy my 'just from Cyrodiil' persona. One slip about how long I had been in Skyrim, and Nuala could tear away my armor of lies like bark from a dead tree.

"You seem to have little trouble finding new servants," Nuala's voice broke into my frustration. My skin crawled at her close proximity.

"I listen to people," I explained as soon as I thought my voice wouldn't shake. "Aela told us that she didn't appreciate Imperial men groping her legs and plying her with alcohol. So I grabbed a breast and offered a quick fuck. It's what she clearly wanted."

"Charming," Nuala replied, "Yet to hear Achenar tell it, she was about to pin you to the floorboards before she magically changed her mind."

I smiled, "One of my Nord friends in Skingrad explained it to me: It's not love in Skyrim until there has been an altercation."

Nuala rolled her eyes, "Human mating rituals are truly bizarre," she opined.

I thought statement unjust even for a Thalmor Justiciar.

"You and Achenar seem to behave in a very human way on a regular basis," I observed lightly.

She suppressed a shudder, "He's a filthy little animal, 'won't keep his hands off me."

"Maye fucking him every few days isn't the message you want to send," Even among people I like, I have no sympathy for this breed of unhappy relationship.

"It keeps him under control," she snorted, "I'll do whatever it takes to keep him quiet and loyal."

"He must be a terrible mercenary then," I remarked. "I'd be loyal just to earn my gold."

"He has the loyalty of a cat. If I were to let him out of my sight, he'd sell his findings and expertise to the next person willing to pay his asking price."

"Is there anything in life you actually enjoy?" I asked, seizing the opportunity to get her answering the questions for a change.

"I love exposing the guilty," Nuala said in a fervent tone that caught me off guard. "I love picking apart lies and deceit and saying, 'Look! This is what you are! This is what you do to the world around you!' It's why I seek out people like you Diocletian. People whose lies brush so close to the truth they can deceive lesser creatures like those two dilettantes and the trollop."

The irony in her remarks was so delicious I let the harlot remark roll off my shoulders like the mist beading on my cloak.

She went on with a seething hate in her voice that surprised me, "I want to be able to drag you into the open deceiver, and kill you like the traitor I know you are."

I swallowed on a dry throat, "If I am a traitor Justiciar, it is neither to my gods or my conscience," I answered.

During our exchange, Achenar led us off the old dwarven road and up a goat path. It took me a long while to realize that we had emerged from the ravine onto a broad plateau. In the encompassing fog we were six figures walking in a small circle of heather and grass. I was within half a step of bumping into him when I realized that Achenar had stopped. I followed his gaze to a great stone head looming above us from its place in the barely visible cliff.

"This is the face of Hevnoraak, the only priest known so far whose living image has survived to this day," Achenar explained as our party walked forward. The fog seemed to part before us, revealing broad steps that led up to a sheltered overlook set deep in the stone. "He was the overlord of Valthume at the close of the Dragon War."

" _Hevnoraak means Brutal_ ," I translated to myself.


	11. In the Halls of the Mountain King

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. It's about damn time I posted an update. Before we begin: Thank you Supergoddad. I'm glad that you are so thoroughly sold on Ieago's adventures. To you folks out there like Chris, Legolas, Naruto, and Sokat who have been sticking this out for three years now, thank you. I don't know what else to say.**

* * *

I heaved on the heavy torque of Valthume's door and conducted my party into a forbidding antechamber. We beheld a skeleton seated on a bare stone chair. His grin was filled with menace as he sat there with a hand on the hilt of the sword lying across his knees. A rust pitted helm was on the floor at his feet. We walked past the long dead guardian.

It was Morgan to notice that Ghent had not come with us. When I looked back, I saw him gazing vacantly at the skeleton.

"Ghent?" Morgan called gently, "What are you looking at? Ghent?" she called again when he didn't respond immediately.

Ghent tore his gaze away from the human remains with an effort and kept trying to glance back.

"Are you alright Ghent?" Morgan asked.

He winced at the question. "I—I'm fine," he lied, "I just wanted a closer look, that's all. It's not our way to leave someone out like this," he tried to explain.

"I'm sure the circumstances surrounding this man's interment were fascinating. Unless he's the arch-priest of this city however, our study of the doorman will have to wait," Achenar said from behind be. I turned to follow him, but not without a concerned glance over my shoulder at Ghent.

The great chamber of Valthume was breathtaking in its scale. The Jarl of this ancient holdfast would have been able to feast hundreds with ease. When necessary thousands could have packed within to witness their overlord's decree. The palace was built for defense as well. Just two narrow passages, one now hopelessly blocked with debris, permitted access deeper into the mountain.

This appreciation was lost on Achenar, however. He had eyes only for the large stone coffin resting on a round platform before the chamber's iron throne. His delight in such a quick find was moderated when we found that the lid would not come off, no matter how hard he, Ghent, and I heaved on the crowbars we'd brought.

"There is a geas on the coffin," Nuala said with her left hand in the air and eyes closed. Her gestures swept the wall behind the chamber's throne. "The mana-lines go deeper into the catacombs."

"Then we know what's next, don't we Diocletian?" Achenar asked snidely. "Oh! Your hireling is staring off into the ether again."

True enough, Ghent had taken an interest in the hall's high-backed iron throne and the brass basin directly at its feet. He was the only one over there, yet as I came closer he appeared to be having quite the conversation. There was a distant look on his face again and I could have sworn I heard him muttering under his breath in the dragon language.

"Nirn to Ghent," I said, rocking his shoulder gently. His eyes took a long minute to focus on me. I lowered my voice, "Are you positive you're alright? Would it be better if you withdrew?"

Ghent shook his head fiercely, but when he spoke he sounded deeply distracted and anxious. "No! It's just that there's something going on here. I can…sense things. But nothing's coming into focus."

The feeling of deep misgiving started deep in my chest spread to my gut like a stain. "If you say so Ghent, but stay close to Morgan, alright?"

"I'll be fine Ie—ah—Diocletian."

Have you ever been able to hear your day going to shit?

* * *

Valthume's interior consisted of long and narrow hallways connecting a series of cramped chambers. Each room off the main hall had a clear purpose: We passed more than one wizard's laboratory complete with a familiar enchanting table and alchemy lab. We passed an armory filled with decaying weapons. A third chamber looked to be a shrine where the draugr were embalmed. It was strange however, that the whole complex felt deserted and idle. We encountered half a dozen chambers where intact draugr lay at rest, but none woke to move against us.

Our present hallway was about to terminate in a medium-sized chapel when I thought I saw a light wavering from within. I drew my sword and motioned for my charges to hold back. I crept forward and stretched out with my enhanced senses, but I could neither hear footsteps nor smell the smoke of the flickering torch the stranger was carrying.

I was about to peer into the open space when a powerful hand lurched me back into the shadows of the hall. I felt myself be thrown bodily against the wall. "Don't let him see you!" Ghent said in a shaky whisper. His eyes were glowing a faint, cold blue beneath his hood. When I looked away from my troubled friend, there was no sign of anyone in the room ahead.

"Let's take a few minutes here," Achenar commanded. "Perhaps it will calm our mage's frayed nerves."

We spread out into the room and paired off. Morgan and Ghent sat in a corner while Achenar and Nuala looked closely at the altar. I sat on one of the rearmost benches with Aela. "How are you holding up?" I asked her.

She shrugged at rubbed her neck, "I'm not as bad as Ghent, but this place doesn't feel like it should. I sense anticipation. Like some vigil is about to end."

"What about other tombs?" I asked, just above a whisper.

"Sometimes fear. Usually regret. Always anger," she told me in the same voice.

I got up and walked over to see what Achenar found so interesting about the chapel's altar.

"This arrangement isn't far off from the process described in the _Necrom Codex_. These channels drain the blood away and into the stone," Nuala was explaining. "It would run through hollows and out through these three spouts. They would be called the Mouths of the Soul, Animus, and Coil. After the emptying, the remains would be preserved and united with the phylactery

"You know a great deal about necromancy," I commented while looking at the grooves in the large stone table that Nula was pointing out.

"Unlike the sniveling prima-donnas of Cyrodiil's schools, we in Alinor embrace all learning," she sniffed.

"Save it for later. _Both_ of you," Achenar scolded. "What comes after my dear?"

"Simplicity itself: the blood must be mixed again and returned to its owner. The vessels are likely in this complex."

"It appears that Valthume was abandoned before Hevnoraak's plans could come to fruition," Achenar mused.

The three of us jerked around at the sound of Ghent speaking immediately behind us. " _Orin ko dinok mu aam ex_." He said.

"Your mystic is getting worse," Nuala commented, waving a hand into Ghent's vacant stare and getting no response.

"Or better as far as we're concerned. These lapses of his are getting longer," Achenar observed, "Mage, what did you say to us? What is Valthume telling you but not us?

I held my tongue. Ghent had just told us, " _Even in death we serve him_."

But the blue-clad wizard was unresponsive to Achenar, who merely sighed his disappointment. He pointed down the hall. I led the way into the dark.

* * *

The chamber at the end of the hall was bright and welcoming after the hall itself. The whole tunnel had been dedicated by its builders to torture. The long, straight path was lined by small rooms with windows looking out onto the hall at regular intervals. In the center of each was a rack or a table. A handful of cages stood against the walls. Some were still occupied with desiccated captives, hands over their weeping faces or clutching the iron bands, still desperate after ages of captivity.

"We could always hear," Ghent said in a rare near-lucid moment. His behavior was constantly disturbing by now. I had handed his sword over to Morgan after he tried to pick a fight with the contents of a closet. In almost every room we visited he would hover near one object or another. He would converse quietly with people only he could hear. Ghent would sometimes speak in modern Cyrodiilic, but most of the time only I understood the language.

"Whoever designed this place was an artist," Nuala mused with grudging admiration. "The screams in one chamber could echo into every cell in the hall."

I ignored her and did my best to enjoy the fresh air of the terminal chamber. Skylights filled the teardrop shaped room with a comforting natural light. The air that wafted in was cool and damp. The rough-hewn walls were decorated with dark green moss. Tufts of grass and dandelions poked up from the cracked paving stones near the upright coffin at the end of the room. A shallow basin similar to the one before Hevnoraak's throne stood in the midst of the calm scene. In of itself, the basin was nothing spectacular. My mother used one almost identical to it as a bird bath in her garden back in Kvatch. But within was a gleaming black stone jar. The onyx vessel was carved with hundreds of perfect facets and was tightly sealed.

Still behind me in the hall, I head Ghent began to weep, " _Rok mindok_. _Rok Koraav_."

I had the time to think, "He knows. He sees," before a wight in black steel armor stepped from the coffin before me. His eyes glowed blue with cool rage. I saw a lipless jaw appear from the bottom of his tall helmet and he Shouted, " _Fus ro dah_!"

The tremendous power of the ancient Tongue blasted us back into the hall of pain. I was the first to recover from the Unrelenting Force. I picked myself up and drew the blade of Cyrodiil's legions. The draugr was content to wait in his room, his long sword swinging slowly in a lazy eight.

" _Zaamman_ ," he rasped at me, " _Mahfaeraak kren zahkiu nau Bronu dwiin_."

I poured every ounce of my race's arrogance into my reply, "All who have denied our freedom have perished."

My polished sword shot out like a lightning. He parried close to his body, the corroded blade's weight throwing me off balance. A slugging match ensued, the fury of the ancient north against the dignity of the south while our friends and enemies looked on.

The duel was long and hard-fought, but the offended dignity of the south would not suffer another stain. The draugr used his Shout once again, throwing me back into a wall. I pushed with my rebound, driving my blade through the creature's teeth. A stomp broke his knee and brought him low. I withdrew the blade and crowned the undead through his rusted helm with a single great arc.

My blade came free of the draugr's head with a final stomp and a dry crunch. The only two to not look on me with worry were Achenar, who went to inspect the carved jar. And Ghent, still a source of worry in his distracted state.

"The soldiers among the living should be thankful there are not two swordsmen of your caliber in the Legion, Quaestor," Achnenar said over his shoulder. He was gazing with unconcealed wonder at the flawless artifact in his hands. I bowed to acknowledge the complement and turned to leave with Aela beside me.

* * *

 **More to come this weekend.**


	12. The Deathlord and the Dragonborn

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. As promised, another chapter by the end of this week. The Deathlord's taunt at the end of the previous chapter is the closest the uesp and official wikis could help me get to, "** ** _Slave man: forever breaking yourself on Nordic steel_** **." The postscript of this chapter is a response to a specific reviewer. It's explains a part of my thought process while writing this series and might not be terribly interesting to other people.**

* * *

Long turns in the dark brought us to a second jar. It sat in a dry sink set against the far wall. A series of scalloped alcoves lined the low-ceilinged chamber.

Our party had returned to the usual pattern after my confrontation with the talkative draugr guardian. Ghent appeared to be coherent and aware of his present surroundings, though Morgan never took her eyes from him. But more normal still, Nuala remained uncomfortably close.

"You understood that thing in the Chamber of the Coil," She whispered as if there weren't four people standing silently ten feet from us.

"I understood it as one understands a rabid dog," I replied.

"One does not get so angry at a rabid animal. One puts it down," Nuala said, not buying my excuse.

"As I recall, I put the animal down with considerable effort."

"Achenar may not care enough to be bothered, but we both know who you are, _Dragonborn_."

A lump of cold grease settled in my gut. "And I maintain that I am Diocletian, a Quaestor of the Legion," I replied.

Thankfully Ghent decided to do something foolish.

" _Mu feimme_. _Ke lahney_ ," [We fade, he remains] Ghent croaked in the dragon language just before reaching out for the stone jar in its obviously trapped basin.

"Arkay's black bones!" Morgan swore as she heaved Ghent to the floor. I barely felt the heat before Aela pulled me clear of the flames erupting from the room's many alcoves.

Looking into the red-hot crucible, I feared the worst until I remembered just what sort of mage Morgan was. The magical fires whirled for a long minute. The curtains of flame parted every once and again to show the tiny woman as an orange silhouette among the flying sheets of heat. She stood over her paramour, arms and legs wide apart, and her hair aflame. Her head was tilted far back and her mouth was wide open in what I could only call ecstasy. By degrees she absorbed the flames until nothing was left but her blazing hair and a film of blue fire over her skin.

The retreating fires allowed us a glimpse at the nature of Ghent's torment. The figures stood in a tight ring around the two young mages, looking like a child's stick figure drawings of people. They looked down on Ghent and began to disintegrate. Soon there was nothing left of them but stains of ash on the floor.

In the total silence, Achenar's boots clacked on the stone floor as he strode over to Ghent. He took the stone jar from unresisting hands and departed with Nuala. Aela and I rushed in to see to our tortured friend.

* * *

After so many hours of wandering I couldn't begin to guess at how far into the mountain Achenar had taken us. For all I knew the six of us had crossed beneath the border and I was back in Cyrodiil again. The narrow passages were behind us, replaced instead with the bizarre subterranean complexes that the ancient Nords had so adored. I found it head to imagine people actually _living_ down here, but the evidence was there as we strode through a high hall. Far to our left and right black portcullises blocked the great thoroughfare that ran parallel to the spine of the mountains. Huge grates, half choked with centuries of debris, allowed light down from their shafts far above the great vaults of the ceiling. And poor Ghent stumbled through the open space like a lost man weaving through a crowded market.

Achenar led us without comment across the old boulevard and into a wide, low-ceilinged hall. It checked us perhaps a hundred yards later with the ringed puzzle-door that the Ancients favored as a seal. On a squat pedestal before the door was an iron model of a dragon's claw; complete with sharp claws three inches long. A pair of shriveled and mutilated bodies lay at the pedestal's feet.

"Well Quaestor, I am in need of your services again," Achenar said from a spot well away from the claw and its attending bodies.

I frowned, nodded, and approached the claw. I took my time, searching for the primeval trap or guards that must have killed my predecessors.

"Quaestor, this is a terrible idea," Aela blurted out as I neared the left-hand corpse.

I twisted back to give my wife a concerned look. "I'm aware mercenary," I told her, "If I had my way, we would have sealed the door and left long ago."

She unslung her bow. "If you like, I could try shooting…"

"No!" Achenar interrupted with surprising intensity. "That key is irreplaceable! I will not allow the slightest risk of damage. The Quaestor will retrieve it unaided! No magic, no elaborate and risky shooting!"

"It's alright Aela," I soothed my increasingly angry wife, "Stay well back and keep the mages safe."

She nodded quickly and did as I asked with a worried look on her face. Morgan pulled Ghent back by the wrist. Achenar and Nuala followed them with total complacency.

Once the five of them were beyond the closest of the low arches that supported the hall, I came up to the claw. The pressure-plate the claw-key was resting on was obvious in the light of Nuala and Morgan's spells. I searched all around its base and the walls adjacent, looking for the blowholes that would send poisoned darts at me by the dozen. Seeing none, I looked up and carefully inspected the ceiling. The Ayleids were fond of placing large boulders above important relics. Knowing from repeated experience that I was about to trigger a trap, I grabbed the claw and launched myself back toward my party.

"This is where the heretics sealed the most renowned of the faithful," Ghent explained in a distant tone as the pressure plate beneath the claw sild up.

The response was swift, dramatic, and typically Nordic. Aela just had time for a single anguished, "No!" before the arch behind me slid shut between us and two panels on either side fell away, trapping me in a dark chamber ten feet high, thirty long, and about the same across. Two green torches and eight blue eyes flared to life in the recesses. The skin and ebony weapons of the seated draugr glistened wetly in the horrid light.

I set the claw aside and stood while the undead rose from their chairs and stretched and rotated their ancient joints. I attacked before their horn-helmed leader had a chance to issue a challenge. I lunged at the closest form to my left. I held my sword by the handle in one hand and half way up the blade in my other. This gave me a long dagger that I could drive with the weight of my body through the old leather and calcified bone of the wight's sternum. The blow was hard enough that that the expiring undead fell limply back into its chair. My sword hopelessly stuck, I grabbed the ebony sword from its unresisting hand and threw myself away before its partner could cleave me with a vicious hand-axe. I bounced off a shield coming up behind me and tried to roll away at an angle.

My maneuver was partly successful. I dove toward the panel that segregated me from my compatriots, but my roll stopped short and left me on my stomach instead of coming up on my feet. I sprang to the side just in time to escape an axe getting shoved between the bones of my right leg. On my back now, I saw the blue glow of eyes and the faint outline of tall horns before a colossal battle axe rushed down at my face. I cried out in fright and rolled away like a leaf in a strong wind. I sprang up and drew away from them and next to the claw's pedestal. I circled the waist high obstacle and rounded on the second sword wielding guardian. I fought furiously, knowing I had only until the leader and the hand-axe wielder crossed the space to kill.

Out of options, I grabbed the ebony shield, lurched over the top, and shoved my borrowed sword into its teeth with my free hand. A launched my foot out in a powerful side-kick that ended with me facing the remaining draugr.

She and I circled the pedestal, staying opposite of one another. " _Dovahkiin_! _Thu'um nikriin! Thu'um nu dir_!" [Dragonborn! Shout coward! Shout or die!] The long-dead woman mocked. She carried her tremendous war axe with a wide grip, much like a modern spearman would. In a barely visible flash of ebony she stabbed at me, the seven-foot halberd racing through the space between us.

I sidestepped and hooked the heavy blade of her axe with my sword. "Who told you?" I demanded of the wight.

She pulled hard, drawing me toward her and banging my hip on the stone pedestal in the process. I shouted in pain and spun with the awkward maneuver. My purloined ebony sword lashed out and caught the draugr in the stomach. In life the deep, long cut in her midsection would have been agonizing and fatal within minutes. For the draugr I'd been fighting, it was merely debilitating.

I recovered and turned to face the threat, " _Tinvaak_!" I commanded the perishing guardian before me.

The undead woman looked up at me and her head and shoulders appeared to sway like a living person gasping their last breath, " _Zu'u Drogdinok do Valthume_. _Zu'u mindok Dovahkiin fod Zu'u grind gein_." [I am the Deathlord of Valthume. I know a Dragonborn when I meet one.]

I stabbed hard into the unwavering light of her eyes and interrupted the long vigil of the Deathlord of Valthume.

The grinding of reluctant stone rewarded my efforts before the ringed door once I unlocked it with the iron claw. The door was evidently part of the larger security system, for the solid barrier between my companions and I also shifted. Aela bolted in, throwing her arms about my neck in relief.

"Remarkable Quaestor! Just remarkable!" Achenar said as he stepped over the debris of my latest altercation to peer within the large, columned chamber beyond the ringed door. "Yet another feat of consummate swordplay! We were worried, particularly the Companion. She was quite beside herself. I wonder if you might be remaining in Skyrim after your tour of duty is done," He gave me a sly, knowing look over his shoulder.

I took the time to glare at his insensitive remark before Nuala spoke. "Your ability to win the affection of new people must be quite the asset. I wonder how well known you are back in Cyrodiil?" She asked snidely.

I disengaged from my wife's arms to face the two Altmer, "I keep my affairs few and discrete," Justiciar. I winced at the pain blossoming in my hip as I walked up to my charges to investigate the opened room for myself. I licked my swollen lip and tasted blood in my mouth again. "And for better or worse Achenar, I'm no stranger to violence."

* * *

 **I've been neglecting a good question from Naruto Kombat. They asked in an earlier review how I justify placing Thalmor at the isolated Skuldafn temple. As I started playing Skyrim with an eye toward fanfiction writing, I started paying more attention to the game's environments and the clues that the developers placed for us. The armed skeleton laying near the temple's word-wall and the collection of skulls stacked at the ebony claw's associated door hint to me that many people have trespassed at Skuldafn before the Dragonborn came along. They had to get there somehow. Second, the temple complex is** ** _huge_** **: Almost as big as Labyrinthian. If the real world's cathedrals and the Great Pyramids are any indication, Skuldafn's completion would have required an army of people working for decades in a pre-industrial society. Even if the necessary timber and stone were harvested on-site, a vast amount of food and material would need to be shipped in. Third, when all was said and done the dragons' worshippers would need a way to access this massive church.**

 **All of that points to the necessity of a road linking Skuldafn to the rest of Skyrim. I concede that erosion and earthquakes could (and probably have) buried the thoroughfare. However, this rack would have followed the easiest path through the mountains. I think it likely that a diligent scholar and active explorer like Achenar would be able to locate this buried path. With enough time and adequate supplies, I believe that Achenar would have been able to lead an expedition along that ancient road.**


	13. More Bad Ideas

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Hi team, thanks for reading and for those who have been following for a while, thank you for your patience.**

* * *

We were in the final storage chamber. It was called the Hall of the Soul, Nuala informed us. A final stone jar stood on another short pedestal in the midst of the room's four tall columns. A word wall dominated the far section of the space. It enjoined us to remember, " _Valdar Ghost-Bear. Who sought redemption in Valthume, but instead found death and dishonor_."

Every other wall was occupied with niches for sleping draugr in the usual Nordic style. None moved to impede our progress into the room or interrupt my reading of the wall, but by now we'd learned to stay well away from the stone vessel.

"Let me listen!" Ghent roared when Morgan tried to lead him away from the confines of the word wall and back to the exit. "I must know!" His struggling was so bad that Nuala intervened with an annoyed sigh. She cast one of the spells that the Justiciars use to calm and compel their arrests.

This noisy drama was a distant second for Achenar's concern. He circled his prize. Those of us who could tightened our grips on our weapons or readied our most capable spells. Our straining eyes sought out the first twitch of unquiet dead rising to challenge our grave robbing. I searched the area in a close circle around the base of the stone podium for the telltale holes of a spike or fire trap.

Somehow none of us were ready for Ghent. " _Rok nis filok_!" An alien voice bellowed from his mouth the instant Achenar touched the vessel of Hevnoraak's blood. Ghent's hood was thrown back, revealing wild hair and eyes that glowed blue so brightly they threw our doubled shadows on the word wall fifty feet away. Bolt after bolt of lightning leapt from his hands in a ferocious magical attack that I didn't dare interrupt.

Achenar's reaction was so swift and final that comprehension eluded me for some time. The elf's hand shot out in a palm-outward gesture of rejection and denial. The ward blossomed from his open hand and absorbed the whole of Ghent's ferocious assault as easily as Morgan's whole body absorbed the flames. Achenar frowned deeply and pushed out with his other hand. Ghent was blasted out of the room as if struck by a huge invisible fist.

"Bind him tightly," Achenar ordered.

We returned to the great hall of Valthume to complete the necromantic ritual—despite my repeated protests and Ghent's incoherent weeping. Achenar and Nuala remained convinced that we could handle whatever was in the coffin.

"A whole city of ghosts dedicated themselves to keeping this Hevnoraak buried," I pointed out a final time next to the throne.

"Have the possessed one sit on the throne," Nuala ordered, ignoring me, "His link to this place will make the magic stronger, more sure."

Ghent had little choice but to comply. He had been mute since the final attack, but shook with rage as far as his bindings and Nuala's spells would allow.

Nuala went on to arrange the three jars around the basin before Ghent's throne. "The correct order is critical to a successful completion. Only then will the lich be completely released from his resting place," Nuala said. She picked up and the first jar and broke the seal. "The body is the foundation of all earthly existence, so a portion is made for the mortal coil," she intoned as she poured the black liquid within the jar into the basin. The air around us shuddered with pent up energy.

Ghent growled in his struggle against the spells on him. His eyes began to glow draugr blue again.

She broke the second seal and began pouring, careful not to allow a single drop splash to the floor. "The animus gives life to the body, causes motion, and informs the senses." A bright white line appeared beneath the rim of Hevnoraak's sarcophagus.

Nuala was stooping to raise the final jar. Ghent and whoever he was channeling could bear no more, " _Dovahiin! Rok nis filok_!" his host said though clenched teeth.

I looked between the shuddering, glowing coffin and Nuala's eager face. "Fuck it," I swore and grabbed the final jar from her hands. I flung the Vessel of the Soul as far and high as I could. It shattered on the floor.

Jets of dust flew out from Hevnoraak's resting place in the middle of the room. The soulless demi-lich tore itself free of its grave and charged poor Ghent in a reflex of hate. Without its soul the revenant was a rabid animal, cunning in its single-minded desire to kill Ghent. Again and again it threw itself on Morgan's ward and eluded her conjured flames. Aela and I hacked away at it, doing our best to avoid the bronze-tipped nails that capped the needlelike remnants of its fingers and swings from a staff that could break bone. The fight was long, but blow by blow and spell by spell we brought Hevnoraak down. All that remained was a pile of ash, scraps of linen, and the iron mask of Brutality.

Ghent gasped and the cerulean glow of his gaze faded, leaving his hooded face a black abyss in the dim light. He leaned back, clutching the arms of his chair. Morgan stood at his side while Aela and I squatted the foot his dais with sword drawn and bow strung. Ghent was the living image of a dragon-priest as Vlathume gave its last gasp. The black forms returned, filling the hall row upon row, facing the tall throne. In a minute the hard edges of the figures began to swirl like vapor. Soon the mountain city was empty again; apart from my friends and a pair of Thalmor agents who had long-sought proof of who I was.

"What happens now?" Ghent asked from beneath his hood. It was the first coherent phrase he'd uttered in a long while.

"That depends of the Dragonborn here," Achenar replied with a threatening look at Nuala.

"Speak your mind Achenar," I said.

Achenar smiled easily and relaxed, "Our goals still align Dragonborn. Unless I miss my guess, you have the wooden mask and two others that my employers seek. Yet I know the location of the last two."

"By my count there's only one left," I replied.

"And that is the last secret of Skyrim's dragon priest masks! All nine must be brought together before a _tenth_ can be found!"

I have to admit: I was not happy at the thought of a tenth mask in Thalmor hands and found myself eager to challenge Achenar for it.

"And when our interests no longer align?"

"Simplicity itself: I am gambling that I can kill the four of you and take the masks my employers are paying so dearly for."

"That's a bold wager," I observed.

Achenar grinned and twirled his finger next to his head in a careless, dismissive gesture, "Knowledge is the only true power Ieago Decre, Ranger of Colovia, Knight-Brother of the Nine, and many other titles." Nuala twisted to shoot an astounded look at Achenar and again to look on me with fresh surprise and hate.

I frowned deeply from my place on the dais, "You made your point." Against all instincts I scooped up the iron burial mask and handed it to Achenar.

"This will be the most fun I've had since hunting the Blades," he said brightly.


	14. Wake Up!

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Hi team. My work isn't dead yet. I swear to God. The conclusion to this story is already done and...**

 **...well, damnit, I'm still struggling with Dawnguard. I have the basic outline of what I want, but filling in the gaps is a bit harder than I thought it would be. It's still coming though. It's a challenge to myself at this point, and it's going to be the best I can make it. Thank you all for reading. Here's a bit of soapboxing. And some action to make up for it.**

* * *

"Care to confess your sins Dragonborn? It appears you have more than I thought," Nuala remarked.

We were riding on the road to Markarth a few days later. Free from his terrible ordeal within Valthume, Ghent was riding far ahead with Morgan in his lap upon the saddle. Aela was trotting ahead of them as a vanguard. She and I were keeping our ears peeled and noses open for the least sign of Forsworn lying in the rocks and brush that dominated the deep ravines of The Reach. Achenar was content to loiter behind us, often riding, sometimes walking, and silently allowing us to find our way along the roads without his input.

Nuala and I rode together often. In the wake of irrefutable proof that I was Ieago of Kvatch, responsible for murder of Thalmor personnel, theft of Embassy property, and heresy; we'd formed a strange sort of entente. Her language around me was still antagonistic and prosecutory, but the layer genuine hostility had been replaced by a careful curiosity. The result was a series of direct interviews concerning my past. I surprised myself that I was so disposed to speak to the woman who would gleefully crucify me. Everyone is their own favorite subject I suppose.

"What would you like to hear about today Justiciar?" I asked benignly.

"Yesterday you stopped at Alduin's arrival and your escape from Helgen. How is it that nobody connected the two of you?"

"A fistful of people did," I replied. "I even told them how I came to be there in the first place."

"All these people knew you were a fugitive from justice and none tried to report you?" She asked in a serious tone.

I bit my lip and tilted my head from side to side, feeling the bones and tendons pop. I took a breath and tried to express what tends to be a difficult truth for Nuala and many who hold to her authoritarian views.

"Alinor manages the Empire like a client state it is, Justiciar. Nobody can really disagree with that. But that doesn't mean that we in the Empire have to like that fact or want this state of affairs to persist," I started to explain.

"So the laws ordered by the White-Gold Concordant are seen as being less legitimate and resisting them is a way of undermining the Dominion," Nuala finished the thought. "But what of the Empire's client states, surely they attempt the same ends? Skyrim just tried to shake off its imperial ties."

It was an observation that I often wrestle with myself, "Until your precious Concordant came along, it seems to me that the Imperial System worked. Did the Empire demand tribute and soldiers? Yes, it did. Did expect lasting fealty? Absolutely—the Stormcloaks found that out to their sorrow. In return most of a kingdom's laws remained intact. Troublemakers would be dealt with in the traditional ways. People and goods could move freely; we all used a common coin. Our state pantheon had a god in it that every culture could find acceptable. While daedra worship wasn't allowed near civilized areas; so long as the cults didn't pose a public threat, the Empire was willing to tolerate their religious expression."

I felt myself getting angry again, "Then the Concordant comes along. The Blades, _our_ heroes of the Oblivion crisis, who stood behind our last great emperor and The Champion to defend Tamriel, are suddenly criminals with staggering bounties on their heads. Each and every land owner sees their taxes soar as the Empire is forced to pay an economy-breaking indemnity to the nation that attacked _us_. And the most popular god in our pantheon for half our population; one that stands as an example of all we could become; a hope that divine grace is open to us all; is declared _false_. Imagine the uproar on the Summerset Isle if a new overlord declared Auriel false!" I tapped the amulet of Akatosh on my chest at that blasphemy and went on, "What laws would you buck?"

Nuala and I rode silently for a few minutes before she spoke again. "Being brought to enlightenment can be hard and painful. But the sooner the Talos Heresy is extracted from society, the better off you all will be."

I sighed in frustration, "And that toxic attitude is the root of the problem: Heretics aren't opponents to be destroyed, they're friends to be convinced."

Nuala gave me a sideling glance from beneath her hood. "With an attitude that spineless, I'm amazed your Empire lasted as long as it did," she said.

"It wasn't always this way," I replied, "Cyrodiil parents still promise our children that the Alessian Order's monks will come and take them to the deepest dungeons if they don't go to bed or eat their vegetables."

To my surprise she barked out a quick laugh.

* * *

We spent one night in Markarth before moving on. I had mixed feelings about the brief period of time I spent in Vilendril hall before departing with the rising sun in my face. On one hand, the days were brutal while we hiked the roads where the humid ravines seemed to focus the sun onto our backs. After days in the surprisingly hot and humid Skyrim summer, every part of my body itched with sweat and filth. I was glad to be in the shady city and take advantage of its many cool public fountains as they issued from the living rock. We were all happy to sleep in beds made deep in the earth.

It was clear however, that the bulk of the Markarth's residents were terrified of me. To a man and woman, the guards were _exactly_ correct. They came to a smart attention when I passed, their shields held low over their left hip, and their right fist thumping their chest legion-fashion. Not one greeting, not a single word. Most of the civilians would step to the other side of the street if they saw me coming. The Reachmen among the city folk would stop and look at me with a mixture of hate and fear filling their tattooed faces. It will be a long while yet before I am safe in the City of Blood and Silver. My eyes lit up with relief when Aela handed me Revenant that night.

Achenar led us on foot down the north road early the next morning. I admit that I felt safer once the shoulder of the mountain hid the city walls behind us. We traveled slowly, for it seemed to me that Achenar was somewhat out of his reckoning for once. At whiles though the day he would pull a folded and creased map of The Reach from a breast pocket and look around. A few times as the sun reached its scorching height, I saw him glance at the mages, as if contemplating asking them for input. But after every such pause, he would frown, look about him again for the landmark he didn't see, and fold the map away.

We continued at this awkward pace for most of the day, but as the ravines began to grow dark, Achenar's face brightened and we departed the road for a questionable path that led up the steep terrain to the northwest.

We camped for the night next to a pile of tumbled rocks carved by the Dwemer. They were arranged in a similar pattern to the post-stations that tended to pop up at the intersections of modern roads. We pitched our tents early in the evening. There were still hours of daylight remaining; but a strange combination of my leftover anxiety from our stay in Markarth, Nuala's paranoia, and Aela's increasing alertness drove us to stop where a defensible position was at hand.

Apart from the large Dwemer debris pile we sheltered our tents with, there were a few upright stones set in the earth by human hands. I guess they were either remnants of a human-built structure or had always been single uprights. This was a point where two cultures who didn't trust each other met.

"My guess is that this was a way-station between Nchuand-Zel and Bthardamz. By how jealously they guarded their cities, I conceive they were jealous of the outer borders of their city-states as well," Achenar was saying to Ghent and Morgan from his spot by our warm, cheery fire. Our group was scattered. Nuala was pacing around the uprights, keeping her thoughts to herself, but periodically glancing at Achenar. Her gaze was far from hostile, but it was clear that she was not happy with our site in the middle of the rocky, dead highland. Aela was sitting cross-legged on a rise in the earth about fifty yards away. She was sitting with her eyes closed in a posture of contemplation, but the slow heaving of her chest and shoulders suggested that she was sampling the air and listening intently. I was standing on the rocks above Achenar's head, searching about me for the least motion. But there was nothing I could see, just clouds growing tall as the wind blew them against the mountains.

Achenar, Ghent, and Morgan continued their amiable talk until the sky turned to the deep blue of early night. As we ate in silence until a tremendous clap of thunder followed a distant flash of lighting in the east. "By now is there anyone here who doubts that we will be attacked tonight?" Achenar asked the group. We all shook our heads in reply.

"I'll take first watch," I volunteered.

"The minute you feel tired, rouse someone else. If it's the Forsworn shadowing us, we can't afford the least inattention."

I nodded my agreement and finished the water in my canteen.

" _Las yah nir_ ," I whispered for the second time that evening. A thunderhead a few miles to the north replied with a long flash of white light and a long rolling boom.

"What's it like when you do that?" Morgan asked from behind me.

I twisted to look up from where I was sitting to see Morgan's shadowed form leaning on the side of the same upright stone that I rested my back against. She was looking at another storm to our east. The billowing grey-orange cloud was perhaps an hour from reaching us. Her voice and presence in the world Aura Whisper revealed to me showed the depth of her anxiety about the coming night.

"Aura Whisper or Shouting in general?" I asked.

"Shouting," Morgan said after a moment's thought.

I mulled over my words and spoke slowly. What using the _Thu'um_ feels like is not a question I get asked all that often. Most seem to think it's something I just do and take it for granted. "It's like taking a piece of your will from inside and releasing it out into the world." I said after a long silence, "If I do it too frequently it gets exhausting."

"Is that why you don't Shout often?" Morgan asked.

It was an astute question. It occurred to me that I hadn't used the _Thu'um_ since leaving the Thalmor headquarters at the beginning of the summer. "That's a lot of it. It's also not always the best tool for the job. I can breathe a line of fire that will travel more than fifty feet and get hot enough to bend metal. If I used Fire Breath to light our camp fire, I'd wind up torching the whole camp."

"So you worry it will get away from you?" She asked.

I glanced back up at her. The approaching storm cast a sustained chain of lightning bolts so I could see her face clearly for a few seconds. It was the same face I met more than a year ago, but this was _not_ the same Morgan. "What are you really thinking about Red?" I asked as gently as I could.

"Ghent scared the shit out of me in Valthume," she admitted. "What the fuck? Did you see him? And those things? They pulled him around like a puppet on strings! He has a gift for, um, connecting with people, but watching them take over like that… And that lighting spell, I haven't seen him use that since before we met you."

I heard her out before thinking back to the last time I'd been on an adventure with the two mages. What Morgan said rang true. It was usually Morgan who favored destruction while Ghent supported her with illusions, telekinetic tugs, wards, and only an occasional blast of frost or solid ice from his palms.

"I saw you and Ghent talking the last few days. Any chance you brought this up with him?"

Morgan shrugged uncomfortably above me, "I did, but he won't open up to me about it. He just keeps telling me he won't let it happen again. I just don't know if I should let it go yet. You saw him, he was completely out of control."

I looked back toward the storm which loomed ever larger before us. Another bolt of lightning flashed and the boom of thunder came with the gust of cool, humid wind that kicked up shortly after. Aura whisper showed me distant flickers of a large group of people on the goat paths beneath the cloud. I unhooked Revenant from my belt and began rolling the hilt in my hand.

It sounds to me like Ghent scared the shit out of himself," I said. "Have you ever let your power get away from you?"

Morgan gasped at the question. When she spoke her voice was raw, "The day I discovered that I was adept at fire magic, I left burns all over another girl's face."

I thought back to the first time I used Dragonrend, how it felt like I was going to turn myself inside out, how I saw a mist of my blood fly in the wind. Or a time much later when my voice conquered a city. Or how wasted I felt after Shouting down a dragon into the Karth River. How fast and loose was I willing to be with my gifts? I wondered privately. "How did you feel?" I asked Morgan.

"I was angry," she answered, "At first I was angry at her for hurting me. Much later at myself for not knowing what I was capable of."

"It seems to me that we all overreach ourselves at times. Ghent did so the other day and it backfired on him almost immediately. I don't have the answers you're looking for Morgan. Just be there for Ghent when this happens, and he'll be there for you," I nodded in the direction of the storm and the auras of the Forsworn beneath it, "About two years ago I overreached myself by getting involved in someone else's war. That is going to catch up to me around midnight. And I'm putting you all at risk by extension."

Morgan sighed, gave me a look of forgiveness, and turned to watch the storm approach.

I am not fond of waiting, particularly when it's waiting for something unpleasant. There's a stress to it that in its way is worse than fighting in a shield wall. At least then you're doing something about your problems. Andthe end is in sight one way or the other. As Crazy Lucian, a mentor years ago in Kvatch's Militia opined, "All you can do while waiting for the fight is to get a better grip on your ankles and brace for what's coming."

The sight of what was coming made me wish that twenty of my old comrades from Kvatch or the Colovian Rangers were present. But bereft of those reinforcements or even shields for them to make a wall with, we made-do with the little we had on hand.

By now we were able to see the shadows of the Forsworn in their jagged, antlered headdresses moving single-file toward us with every flicker of lighting. Aela and I thought to slip out of the camp and intercept the Reachmen on the warpath, but Achenar forbade us. Instead he took command and displayed a grasp of guerrilla warfare that would have frustrated Tullius and made Ulfric green with envy.

"Masters Ghent and Morgan, would you be kind enough to place a few runes about the fire and our tents with the Justiciar?" Achenar commanded my friends. His words projected calm, but the clipped inflection gave away the real stress he was feeling. A flash of lighting revealed the shapes of men jogging toward us barely two hundred yards away. A gust of wind sped toward us from beneath the thunderhead towering above us in the night sky. The grass rippled in dark waves illuminated by the moons foundering above the clouds. The Forsworn approached swiftly from the eye of the wind.

"Dragonborn, Huntress, could I trouble you to seek out a likely place about 500 yards to the north," he ordered.

"Divide and conquer doesn't work well this way," I protested.

"Once the mages are done their work, we'll be along. Please do as I ask."

Aela tapped my shoulder before I could argue again and she and I ran off in the dark. Before long we came to a junction in the trenches and cliffs of Markarth's highlands where the rocks appeared to force a narrow joining of old roads. It was a fine place to wait in ambush.

"King slayer!" A Reachman in furs screamed as he lurched out at me from the concealment of the boulders.

Revenant sprang to life as the Forsworn threw a small hatchet at my face. I ducked the feather-decorated axe. The snap of Aela's bowstring coincided with a crack of thunder directly overhead. The Forsworn fell back with the arrow in his chest as the five fur-clad ravagers behind him ran to meet Aela and me, the words "king slayer," on their lips.

" _Kri-lun-aus_!" I belted out as the clouds above us broke open.

In the wake of my Shout, Revenant handled like she'd acquired a will of her own. A second Forsworn was running at me with a fathered axe in each hand, aiming to cleave beneath the rim of my helmet. Revenant lurched into position almost without my command and hacked a wooden haft just beneath the weapon's head. I drove my chainmail-covered shoulder into the foe's chest. Our bodies shuddered with the impact and bounced apart, but Revenant was coming down and across before I knew what was happening. The shimmering blade connected with the Forsworn's neck and sliced cleanly through.

I looked up from the carnage and saw Aela kicking her elven short sword free of a fur-covered chest, her victim still crying in agony. Two more men were pinned to the ground by arrows. The final Forsworn was aiming his bow at Aela, waiting for her to drop her dying prey.

" _Wuld-nah_!" came out of my mouth as quick as I could form the words in my mind. The Shout dew me over the sixty feet between the archer and me fast enough to make the falling rain sting my face. Revenant sliced into the bow stave as Whirlwind Sprint let me stop. The Reachman's split bow flew back into his face. The flying wood gave me the chance to grab one of the antlers on his headdress and pull his face down onto my knee with a teeth-shattering crunch. Revenant lanced in under the man's armpit as I held him bent over.

I turned back the way we came and saw the glow of our camp fire faintly though the pouring rain. Spells flashed around it with the faint blue glow of a summoned weapon fighting. Our friends and enemies appeared in staccato when lightning offered enough light to see.

Aela came up and pointed at a black spot half way between us and the fire, "It's the mages," the said shortly.

Her senses were vastly superior to mine in the dark, so it was a while yet before I saw the faint, darkened outline of Morgan half-dragging a stumbling Ghent. Lighting broke overhead, but as the ground flashed blue-white in the rain, the air around the mages remained dark. Ghent's head was bowed in concentration as Morgan impelled him forward. There was a spell in his hands like the dark of Blackreach given the form of a sphere. The spell jiggled as he walked, like he was carrying an overfull cup of water across the uneven ground.

Ghent let the spell drop as Morgan shoved him behind Aela and me. The red-headed Breton turned to face our camp. Rain hissed off the faint flames in her hands as she readied a casting. I heard Ghent behind me recite a spell that sounded similar to my Stoneflesh spell but more powerful. I belatedly cast my version of the charm and felt safer as my skin tingled and felt harder.

The flashes of magic around the campfire ended after a quick and furious finale. Lighting revealed Nuala and Achenar running hard to our position. They were a few yards from us when our camp exploded in a ball of white and orange flame.

Nuala was doubled over, sucking in great gulps of air once they reached us. Achenar was still moved upright, barely winded by the midnight battle. His machete was in hand, a faint film of blue fire flickered on the flats of the blade. He pointed up a broad ravine, "More are coming," he said simply, "Lady Companion, I would have you lead us up the canyon, I will be next to you. Dragonborn, Master Ghent, you two will guard the rear," he commanded.

We moved up the canyon as another chain of thunderstorms paraded above us. For half an hour the rain would come down hard and icy, occasionally pelting us with hail, and then it would cut off. In the silence between storms, the distant thunder and flashes of light could not hide the angry yells and footfalls of our pursuit. I called Aura Whisper again and saw the Forsworn in a close ring all around us. There was something wrong with the Reachmen shadowing us. Their auras were shaped like any human's, but they tended to blend with the earth around them.

We were checked at a rain-swollen creek when I learned how our pursuit wasn't a group of ordinary men. A steady rain was coming down by now, the thunder rolling overhead like cartwheels on cobblestone. A lone Forsworn strode up the trail behind us while his brethren remained hidden. As he came close I beheld the gaping hole in his chest and felt my heart tremble with fright. The Forsworn abomination pointed his jagged, tooth covered brand at me and Shouted.

It was not the _Thu'um_ that came from his mouth. It was a strange and wordless magic, a spell far more primal than any Shout I knew. The harsh, wailing yell found harmony with the thunder and wind above and drew strength from the ground below. The might of the earth and sky met in my opponent's soul and poured from his mouth, a spell from the ages before men and elves fought while the dragons soared over the battles.

The spell ended with a hard grunt that felt like a clap of thunder around my chest. My heart shriveled in on itself under the weight of the primeval noise, leaving a cold void of fear around it. I opened my mouth to reply, but no sound came out. My jaw trembled uselessly in the frigid rain. Revenant sang her song of battle-lust, but I could not bring her up to face the Forsworn bearing down on Ghent and I.

Screeching howls came from the dark as the Forsworn attacked. Each voice was a song of rage and vengeance to cut us down before the swords and axes arrived. Flashes of spells and the snap of Aela's bow answered the Forsworn challenge. Nuala, Achenar, and Morgan battered them with magical fire and ice, but I couldn't bring myself to fight back.

I heard Ghent whispering to me. I couldn't tell you what he said, but it felt like a pat on the back from a lifelong friend. The Reachman who'd cast the word of fear on me was close enough that I could see to the large nut in his chest where his heart should have been. "King slayer!" he screamed as he raised his brand high, rain spattering off the dozens of white teeth fixed to the weapon.

Ghent kept whispering. The jagged brand rushed down to open my flesh to the sky and let the blood of my life return to the earth. I gazed up into the Reachman's face the world felt like slowed to a crawl. I was afraid, but this was familiar. This was the fear I knew as the arrows of Windhelm leapt high. This was how it felt just before the shield walls clashed together at Whiterun. Whatever Ghent said to me, it reminded me that I'd faced assassins, dragons, armies, and friends. I could deal with a naked savage yowling in the wilderness. I found my courage again and swept Revenant high to meet the Forsworn blade. The shimmering white caught in the teeth like the weapon was steel and my body shook with the collision of our tremendous strength. A lesser blade and man would have broken.

But the weapon was Revenant and I was the Dragonborn. I found _my_ terrible Voice and Shouted back, " _Fus ro dah_!" The gift of Kynareth struck the Forsworn standing lover-close before me and blasted him away. His body tumbled and slid on the muddy track far into the dark.

I turned to find that Ghent was long gone. Lydia's old elven sword was in his hand as he fought to keep himself between Morgan and the nearest Forsworn. He fought closely with two of the heartless men. His sword flashed between axes and toothed brands. His other hand held one man in a telekinetic grip and he shoved his sword into the pit of the enemy's chest. He gave and uncharacteristic roar as the other Forsworn caught his shoulder with a jagged sword.

Aela moved like the wind around Morgan to get a clear shot at Ghent's attacker. She loosed an arrow, sidestepped, and had another arrow fit to the string before the first found its mark. Nuala and Achenar fought back to back with summoned weapons and spells of lightning, but our assailants shrugged off the blows, arrows, and spells as easily as the bone sword resisted Revenant's blade. Morgan stood in the middle of our improvised circle, her hair aflame and eyes glowing hot yellow-white the way Ghent's could glow blue.

A new fear shot though me as Morgan's mouth began to open. "Get down!" I yelled over the thunder and violence. I dove and hugged the sodden ground. Heat like dragon fire passed over me in a tremendous wave that burned the flesh on my back.

The next thing I knew Achenar was lifting me painfully by my hair, "We need to move damn you!" he yelled into my deafened ears, the first time I'd ever heard him use profanity, "The pyromancer only bought us so much time!"

I nodded and looked about to see Ghent carrying his friend again. His tattered robes were streaked black with wet ash. Aela had Nuala's arm over her shoulder to support the staggering woman. We jogged off in the rain as fast as our battered bodies could take us.

The Forsworn let us shamble onward the rest of the night, but new arrows came with the dawn. None of us were fit to reply. The Reachmen didn't attempt a charge, however. Whatever path Achenar put us on last night seemed good enough to the Forsworn.

"I know this place," Ghent said as we passed the remains of a stone wall. It was so eroded and sunken that it was only a strip of bricks a few inches high. "Around the next bend is Ragnvald. My parents told me this is where the Draugr would take me if I behaved badly too often."

"This was the stronghold of Otar the Mad," Achenar said while gazing at the towering peak of the stone arches at the distant end of the canyon. "History holds him to have been one of the first dragon-priests to be locked away. Even the dragons found him too unstable and sadistic to be useful. The wards and locks served later Nords as a pattern for their post Dragon War efforts."

"So that's why our pursuit is content to keep us moving forward," I observed.

"My sourcebook was the Saga of Torsten and Saerek. The ending was not happy for them: they had themselves interred here when they died so their guard might last forever. It is the oldest known description of draugr being created." Achenar said.

"My father always told me that the draugr were people cursed for _serving_ the dragon priests," Aela commented. She walked with Nuala over her shoulders in a rescue carry. The Altmer's strength had given out shortly before the sunrise.

"And most are." Achenar answered. "It makes little difference to us however, if the draugr are trying to keep grave robbers out or dragon priests in."

The sun was completely above the mountains behind us when we reached the steps of the tremendous temple. It looked like a towering longhouse built into the rock. Of all the other ruins I have visited in Skyrim, only Skuldafin and Bromjunaar exceeded the colossal scale of the stone rafters and that soared above us on our visit to Ragnvald.

I turned to look back down the ancient road we followed last night. Forsworn were trailing us in silence just a hundred yards away. They were spread line abreast as they walked with weapons in hand.

A withered crone of a woman in a filthy black robe walked along the over road. Her face was covered in age-marred tribal tattoos. Her cracked lips were tight together as she hobbled to keep up with the heartless warriors who flanked her.

Ghent and Aela had set Morgan and Nuala down to heave on the torques of Ragnvald's tremendous doors. I turned at the top step and lit Revenant again. By the time the doors were open the silent Forsworn came to a stop within a yard of the steps to the temple.

" _Vopraan_!" The crone screeched out grown enough to set my ears ringing.

Achenar began dragging Nuala to the doors and I scooped Morgan up to follow. Aela and Ghent shoved the doors shut behind us.

We found ourselves in a spacious antechamber. The room was well lit from above, the great wooden planks of the roof having rotted away long ago, leaving the cliff faces above to shelter the hall. A large stone table rested in the middle of the chamber. A mummified woman lay upon it.

"Any idea what she said Lady Morgan? The speech of the Reachmen is akin to Breton," Achenar asked Morgan.

"Whatever she said wasn't a Breton word," she replied from where I'd let her slide to the floor. I leaned heavily against the door, too exhausted to bother about the burns on my back.

" _Wake up_ ," I translated, "She shouted the Draconic for _wake up_."


	15. Broken Vigils

**Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. It had been a long, long while since I posted a new chapter. The free time I have to write has changed tremendously in the last several months for reasons both good and less so. That being said, I still love Skyrim. Legitimately love it. I plan to pick away at my fanfiction when the fancy strikes me, and when I am happy with it, I will be glad to post more. Thank you for reading and without further delay, chapter 15.**

* * *

The rest of the morning was spent doing our best to recuperate. I walked among my party, using my _Healing Hands_ spell as well as I could until Nuala was able to get up and offer her more potent restoration skills. Achenar and Ghent bled from a number of puncture wounds from the Reachmen's toothed brands. The rend in Ghent's shoulder looked horrible from the glimpses I got of it between Morgan's attempts to clean and bandage it. There was a tearing quality to the wound that made me think the Forsworn that delivered the blow tried to saw the weapon out of Ghent's skin. Nuala and Morgan were magically spent by their efforts through the night. I saw the Thalmor Justiciar weeping with exhaustion between attempts at her mending spells. Beneath the shell of burned, red skin, my back ached like the worst frostbite. With her supernatural endurance, Aela was the only one among us unscathed and able to walk without their head spinning.

"Are they still out there?" Ghent asked after a time. He was still laying on his stomach while Morgan picked threads of his cloak from the wound on his shoulder and back.

I got up from my place on the floor by Aela and pulled the temple door open a few inches. I saw a heartless century staring back at me. He drew his bow in warning. I heaved the door shut again and leaned against it as an arrow slammed into the old wood behind me.

"Still there," I relayed the obvious.

"Then there's nothing for it. After we take some time to rest, we must explore the city," Achenar pronounced.

Eyebrows shot up throughout the battered party. "Are you out of your mind?" I yelled at him. "You really think we're in any condition to enter this ruin?"

"And what would you have us do?" He shouted back. "You heard the Brairhearts keening out there. Do you want to fight ten of them like this?" With a sweeping gesture and a mocking bow, he motioned me to the door, "We'll be right behind you. It's slightly safer than being next to you. If you're very lucky, they'll kill you _before_ making drumheads from your skin!" He pointed toward the doors leading deeper into Ragnvald. "If we go in we're certain to find grave-goods we could use: Healing supplies and potions, fresh arrows for the Companion, water, another exit!"

"And a dragon-priest!" I yelled louder than ever.

He rolled his eyes in the most infuriating manner, "I've subdued five! How potent are they really?"

The leather of my gloves creaked as I clenched my fists tight. "I've seen the leftovers of your battles. I counted _a dozen_ corpses at Skuldafn and watched the priest at Volskygge turn four strong, healthy men into red jelly! Now you want to throw five exhausted, beaten people at one?"

The frown on his face turned uglier, "Yes, damn you yes! I was hired to retrieve those masks! And if I have to throw a criminal like you on the sword to do it, so be it!" He screamed in my face.

I usually don't try to punch people on the jaw—it can break your hand—but I knew it would feel good. My fist sailed right past his jaw, however. He'd already sidestepped my punch and was bringing his arm along the top of mine. The back of his elbow connecting with my throat squeezed my tongue and made me gag as he wrapped his arm around my neck and pushed me into arching my back. Gorge rose to my choked off throat as his free fist slammed into my stretched stomach. My body collapsed to the floor. I was barely sitting up when a familiar machete parked underneath my throat.

"After having his throat cut in a failed assassination attempt, Talos Stormcrown led armies with a whisper. How will you fare?" Achenar asked from above me.

The air rasped in my tight throat. I didn't dare look up at Achenar. "When you fall flat on your ass, we will meet in Oblivion and I will say _I told you so_ ," I said in a last act of defiance. He dragged his steel machete across my throat as he drew it away and let me up.

"Get yourselves mended as well as you can. We move in an hour," He ordered.

By the standards of his colleagues, Otar's burial chamber was modest.

" _Two hero-hearts_ ," I read aloud from the word-wall dominating the blocked-off space behind his coffin, " _Two hidden keys. One fallen priest who lies beneath_."

"Beneath two bands of iron eight inches thick," Achenar grumbled from his place in front of the sarcophagus. "These holes though, they look like the slots for the keys the wall mentions."

"What will try to kill us this time? The ghosts of everyone we ever slew? A pair of vampires who dedicated themselves to guarding the tombs? Maybe an animated dragon skeleton that vomits acid?" Nuala asked in a sarcastic voice.

Ghent and Morgan exchanged a worried look.

The old Nords were certainly creative when it came to buying their dirtier secrets," Achenar replied.

"If you two are finished we can move on," Aela growled, less than thrilled at the unflattering discussion of her heritage.

* * *

Vigilance is hard to maintain over a long period of time, particularly when you're exhausted. People get bored in the absence of an immediate threat. Minds wander and arms relax. Despite the word of power used by the Forsworn witch, Ragnvald remained steadfastly asleep. The canal north of the main temple area provided ample water to slake our thirst, clean our lingering wounds, and lull us into an almost happy complacency. We might have been exploring the cellars of Battlehorn Castle back home.

The canal's access bridges and walkways led us past many locked doors until it deposited us in a large, airy room featuring a word-wall and a draugr standing upright in an open stone coffin. Instead of the usual ancient armor, he was clad in the remnants of a mage's robe with ebony boots and gauntlets. His hands clutched an ornately decorated stone skull against his chest. His epitaph was carved into the wall behind him. My companions looked expectantly at me.

"It's more of the city's history. It says: _Here stands Torsten of the fair folk of Ragnvald: all Good Nords and true. Broken by Beinhah's will, our city was eaten alive_." I informed them.

"Beinhah?" Aela asked.

"It was probably the name King Otar took when he joined the priests," Achenar replied while leaning in close to inspect the skull and its owner.

"It works out to 'rot-mind'," I put in.

"So who's going to trigger the trap this time?" Nuala asked.

"I have yet to see you reach for an artifact, Justiciar," I observed.

"Not my job. I'm here to bring you to justice once Achenar is done with you," she sniffed.

"Well stalling gets us nothing," Aela snapped. With that she walked over to the upright draugr, took the skull from his hands, and stepped away before anyone could stop her.

I lit Revenant and dropped into a fighting stance before the dead man. The familiar blue light came into his eyes as if it had been masked by his long-rotted eyelids. Torsten stepped fourth from his coffin and reached into a fold in his robe. He drew a long metal cylinder. He cast an armoring spell similar to mine with his free hand before gripping the hilt. His weapon came to life with a familiar hiss and an excited hum.

"I must confess Dragonborn, this is exquisite," Achenar said while we gazed on the wight menacing me with a ruby-red magicka saber. My shoulders tightened at the sight while I thought on the fight to come.

* * *

I was not fond of being on the receiving end of such a formidable weapon. In hindsight, the gods might have been coaxing me into thinking how I treated my enemies; or just reminding me of my favored weapon's limitations. There were many that I was glad to exploit in my duel against Witchblade Torsten. First, the blade looks thicker than it is: armor penetration happens when the reed-thin cutting surface slips between plates or the tip stabs through the rings of chainmail. Only prolonged, forceful contact will allow the blade to cut or melt away metal or stone. My dragon-stamped steel bracers became improvised shields. The blade's weightlessness is also a limitation. Its lack of mass makes it a marginal tool for blocking heavier metal weapons. The saber's wielder must parry attacks or dodge altogether. Over and over again I was able to swat the crimson blade away and hit Torsten on the back cut.

For all that the magicka saber is a challenging weapon to fight against. The blade is searing hot. Each time I blocked with my bracers, the metal plates became hotter and cooled slowly. Its light weight allowed Torsten to recover and switch stances as easily as I could breathe. He chained his attacks together in endless series of stabs and cuts. Before too long the floor at our feet was covered in gouges and glowing slashes as Torsten and I pressed our attacks or jockeyed for position. Lastly, it is an ideal mage's weapon. The compact size and light weight allowed the draugr to use his off hand for a multitude of healing and defensive spells. In the end it was a losing proposition for me.

" _Fus-ro-dah_!" My _Thu'um_ belted out in the confined space. Torsten was slammed back into his coffin so had the whole assembly—hundreds of pounds of stone—fell back. I leapt up onto the coffin and stabbed down before he could recover.

I switched Revenant off and hopped down from the coffin, panting for a few seconds.

"Let's get out of here," Aela ordered and turned to leave once I'd recovered.

I moved to follow when I heard a croaking sound come from Torsten's coffin. All six of our heads snapped back as one to see Torsten climbing out of his coffin again.

"Out! Now!" I yelled at my team and shut the door behind us, "Ghent, can you seal this door?" He nodded silently and began casting a large circle of runes over the old wood as Aela and I pushed hard on the door. The whole thing shuddered hard from Torsten's blow on the other side.

"They can get up?" Nuala exclaimed in shock.

"Yes! They can!" I shouted over my shoulder. My arms and shoulders jolted as Torsten struck the door again. "Blue, how long will your marks last?" Mute in his distress and fright, Ghent shook his head and shrugged with palms open. "Fuck," I swore, "Achenar, you and Aela are on point. Get us back to the main chamber. Blue, place more of those seals wherever looks promising. Red, you and the Justiciar are rearguard with me."

Morgan nodded her understanding, but Nuala was not used to working with me, "And who put you in command?" she demanded hotly.

I bared my teeth in aggravation, "I've run from Cyrodiil, dragons, Thalmor, armies of 10,000 men, I'm the expert here," I bit out, already following Aela and the two other men toward the city canals.

"Let us argue later," Achenar called from ahead, "The Dragonborn's advice sounds prudent."

Before I turned onto the catwalk above the canal, I looked back down the hall. There was a red blade sticking out of the door to Torsten's chamber. The draugr's cut was already cut halfway through Ghent's seal.

We were not far along in our flight when we heard Ghent's magical seals fail with a chain of splintering sounds and what sounded like angry profanity for Torsten's mouth. Looking back, I saw the guardian walking around the corner. His glowing blade was swinging casually as he strode before us, giving no appearance of haste to engage us. I lit Revenant and began backing away from him, thinking it better to delay contact with such a potent enemy.

"Morgan, Justiciar, we're going to burn him," I said to the two women behind me.

"We'll be ready Ieago," Morgan replied.

Torsten was a paces from coming to blows with me when I Shouted, " _Yol-tor_!" The line of fire erupted from my mouth and was joined by smaller blazes from Morgan and Nuala.

Streams of magical fire stuck to Torsten's desiccated flesh like glue. He flailed on the catwalk and tumbled into the canals below with a splash. We hurried on after the other half of our team.

"Do you think he's down for good?" Nuala asked while Ghent cast a seal on the door to the canals.

The Nords and I all shook our heads. "They all revive after a while, but it's usually years, not minutes," Aela explained.

"All the more reason to hurry," Achenar said.

Saerek's wing was closer to the usual interior of an old Nordic temple. A maze of shrines and crypts were linked by long corridors, too narrow for us to walk abreast. Instead I led the way while Achenar directed our turns from just behind me. More than once, Achenar or I asked one to the mages to cast a light so we could point out a camouflaged pressure plate on the dark ground or a set of swinging blades waiting for an ill-considered footstep.

* * *

After an hour of silence in the temple's crypts, Achenar brought us into a large, open hall with a suspended walkway flying half the length of the room from the door behind us. Many closed doors let into the room via the walkway above and the floor below. We were on the middle level, looking on a stone skull resting on a circular platform in the exact center of the hall. The walkway above ringed the walls and sent a symmetric down to the skull's platform. A broad flight of stairs behind led to the floor below.

A high-backed throne rested there facing a word wall. All we could see yet of its occupant was the pair of sinister horns of his helm jutting above the chair.

" _Hail Saerek! Hail Torsten!_

 _Raise them in your songs_

 _Who tricked mad-king Otar_

 _And rescured Ragnvald for all!_ "

I read aloud for the benefit of my party. I took a deep breath, grabbed the last key, and ran like a hare for the exit. I didn't take the time to look behind us for Guardian Saerek. Ghent was prepared after the events in the canals. Aela and I slammed the door shut behind us and he began casting his sealing-spell once more.

He was just halfway through when Saerek Shouted from the other side, " _Bex_!" His _Thu'um_ slammed into the door, commanding it to open against Ghent's will. The blue-clad mage struggled to hold the door against the demand of the Shout, but the ancient voice was magnitudes more powerful. Ghent cried out and clutched his hands like they'd been burned as the door burst asunder under the weight of the conflicting spells.

The animated corpse standing in the light of our spells brandished an age-blackened mace with the telltale red of daedric manufacture. His shield was a tower of bones that guarded him from neck to knees. Guardian Saerek brandished his waepon and advanced to finish Ghent.

Revenant and I rushed to meet Saerek with a roar, even as Aela's first arrow and Nuala's arcane missile raced me to the foe. The wight barely staggered under the successive impacts. He blocked my charge so forcefully with his shield that my arm bounced back behind me. I was so off balance that kneeling was my only chance to dodge the red-stained mace that swung in at shoulder-height.

I shifted Revenant high to intercept the crowing blow that must follow and shatter my head, but Achenar's flame covered machete flared blue above my head and took the blow. The old cleaver shattered in blue arcane flame when the draugr's mace collided, giving me a chance to roll away and regain my feet.

A ball of flame a foot wide flashed by me as Morgan joined the fray. Saerek took the hit on his shield, but was forced back into his chamber. Perhaps feeling himself overmatched, Saerek Shouted again, " _Feim zii gron_!" The wight disappeared from sight.

I didn't waste a second. "Aela, get them out of here," I said, tossing Saerek's skull-key to Achenar at the same time.

My wife nodded and knocked another arrow without so much as looking at the string. The rest of the group followed her.

" _Las ya niir_ ," I whispered. The dark catacombs became alive round me. My party was a retreating concentration of fear and worry as I looked about. I perceived a knot of patience and anger where my eyes told me no one stood. "Come out, come out. Where ever you are," I muttered under my breath.

Saerek's aura became solid again on the walkway before his key's pedestal. I shut Revenant down and ran.

I came to one of the many intersections in Ragnvald's crypts. Positive that Saerek knew where I was running, I ducked into the hall to my right and waited for the tread of his boots. I heard him stop in the intersection. I pressed myself hard against the wall and waited for his move, ready to switch on Revenant and drive her into his mummified flesh.

" _Fiik lo sah_!" He Shouted.

I had a moment to wonder what " _mirror_ , _deceive_ , _phantom_ ," did when I saw Saerek stride past me. Revenant's light drove the dark away once more. I reached my arm around Saerek's neck and drove the white-hot blade through the leathery flesh of his back. Saerek faded in a curl of smoke and I discovered what the strange Shout's use.

" _Wuld_!" I bellowed and allowed Whirlwind Sprint to pull me into the cloister at the end of the hall. Behind me I heard Saerek's daedric mace bury itself in the rock wall. From my place in the small room, I saw him lurch his mace free of the wall. Saerek's eyes flared blue and they appeared to smoke as he advanced. I cast Ironflesh to strengthen my skin for the slugging match to come. I swallowed on my sore throat, hoping I could bring Saerek down or Shout again before his horrid mace pulped my body.

Revenant illuminated our duel with streaks of light and flashing shadows. A dozen little orange cuts decorated the bone plate of Saerek's shield. The air stank of my sweat and the hot smoke odor of his unnatural weapon. But however hard we might try, neither of us could land a damaging blow. In the lingering all-sight of Aura Whisper Saerek was a mass of calm and patience. Waiting for me to make the mistake that would win him the battle.

I felt almost safe—I was waiting for the same opportunity. I chose to create one. " _Ven, mul, riik_! I Shouted. The catacombs filled with Alduin's choking fog. I switched off Revenant and dove away. I came up and did my best to shift away silently.

I held my breath. The only thing visible in the inky black fog was the fuzzy blue glow of Saerek's eyes. They wavered in the air like will-o-the-wisps baiting their victims. Before long Saerek stopped trying to see through the impenetrable mist. I saw the blue haze of his eyes turn and float back to the hall. He stood in the door of our cloister and waited for my next move.

I did not dare. Saerek gave the aura of a compressed spring. He was ready to make his mistake. " _Zul mey gut_ ," I said the words as if I were speaking aloud, but no sound came from my mouth. The words of power buried in Krosis's memorial drifted from my mouth and into the passage beyond Saerek. They came to the intersection and only then did my thrown voice taunt him. "Come and get me," I taunted from the intersection, just loud enough to be heard.

Saerek's eyes flared brighter in the mists and he turned to chase after my illusion. I put Revenant back on my belt and swapped out to the antique dagger I stole from the embassy. I padded after the undead guardian, knowing I was about to win our battle.

The mists faded, allowing the dim votive candles and sputtering torches to light catacombs. Saerek was a struggle to keep up with. His strides were long and fast as he paced transepts in the halls. We were near the door leading to the main chamber of the temple when he came to a sudden stop. He rushed to the exit and posted himself there. From my hiding place in a branching passage, I peered out and weighed my options. Swallowing, I lit Revenant and threw her to the other side of the intersection. The flashing light drew Saerek like iron to a magnet. He dashed down the hall and lurched off the right. He stopped as he came up to Revenant lying in the middle of the passage. Saerek stood there stupidly, not looking behind him.

The keen moonstone of Elenwen's dagger parted Saerek's preserved flesh and drove in up to the hilt. The blade slid free of the flaking, age-blackened skin. I brought the knife over his throat and slit it as if he were a living man. The wounds had the desired effect. The Draugr Tongue fell limp to the ground. I scooped up Revenant and departed for Ragnvald's basilica.

So waivered the long vigil of Guardian Saerek.

* * *

 **I have more to come. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.**


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